Fatal Act (28 page)

‘I’ve had a great time,’ he told Darius.

‘Good. I’ve enjoyed the evening too. Now, are you in a fit state to get yourself home, or shall we get you a taxi?’

His uncle took Zak by the elbow and steered him towards the door with a firm strong grip.

G
ERALDINE
STOOD
IN
THE
corridor watching Piers stalk out of the police station. Tall and slender, he walked with the dynamic stride of a much younger man. If it weren’t for his greying hair, it would have been difficult to believe he was in his sixties. Only his slightly bowed shoulders gave a hint of physical ageing. He must have been devastatingly attractive when he was younger. Even now, it wasn’t hard to understand his appeal. With the power to boost their careers, actresses might well find him irresistible. What puzzled Geraldine was that after he had spent so many years loving women, there seemed no reason for him to suddenly start killing them.

J
ealousy could be a compelling motive but even apart from his narcissism, Piers was too experienced to become seriously attached to one woman. Despite his denials, she suspected he had been having a fling with Bethany while living with Anna. He had quite possibly been sleeping with other women at the same time. But he wouldn’t have cared enough about any one woman to kill her for being unfaithful. That didn’t mean he had a forgiving nature. If he wanted to be revenged on a woman who had spurned him, he might well set about destroying her career, but Geraldine couldn’t imagine he would commit murder. However unpleasant a character he was, they had no evidence to place him at either crime scene, and Geraldine didn’t believe he had killed either Anna or Bethany. He hadn’t cared enough about either of them to commit a crime of passion.

A
taxi was waiting to take him home. He had declined the offer of a lift, claiming he had spent enough time in the back of a police car for one lifetime.

‘Was that an innocent man wrongly accused, or a serial killer escaping justice?’ a voice muttered in Geraldine’s ear. ‘How the hell can we be expected to judge? We’re not mind readers.’

She turned round and smiled at Nick. ‘That’s just what I was wondering.’

‘It’s never easy letting go of a suspect. You can never be sure if you’ve done the right thing by an innocent man, or let some evil slime bag slip through your fingers. Should he face prosecution for murder, or be allowed to return to his ordinary life? The truth can be so difficult to get at.’

‘I don’t think his life’s what you could call ordinary.’

S
he watched Nick’s reaction closely as she added, ‘Glamorous young women were throwing themselves at him all the time.’

She wished Sam was there. According to the sergeant, Nick never missed an opportunity to make a sexist quip. Geraldine had fully expected him to say he wished glamorous young women would throw themselves at him, or something along those lines. Instead he remarked blandly that Piers’ attractions doubtless had something to do with his influential position.

‘I’ve been reading up on him, in case you wanted to discuss the investigation again. You know I’m around if you need someone to bounce ideas off. You’ll do the same for me if I’m ever in need of help with a tricky case.’

With a nod and a grin, he walked away, the perfect example of a supportive colleague.

‘O
f course he wasn’t going to say anything offensive in front of you,’ Sam countered when Geraldine explained how she had tried to provoke Nick into revealing a patronising attitude to women. ‘He’s doing his best to impress you. Besides, you work with me, and he knows what I think of him.’

It was clear that Sam was determined to think badly of Nick.

‘Right then, let’s stop wasting time on idle gossip about colleagues and get back to work,’ Geraldine said. ‘We can start by going over what we know.’

I
t was depressing. There was little point in going over old ground again, but they had nothing else to do. They decided to tackle the most confusing aspect of the case head on. The crucial missing information about the killers – apart from their identities – was how they had escaped from the crime scenes undetected.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Sam complained, for the hundredth time. ‘People don’t just vanish. They must have gone somewhere.’

They went back to the visual images identification and detection office and chatted to Bill, the constable who was looking after the CCTV surveillance. There was no sign of anyone leaving the scene of the car crash, apart from the reporter who had been sent packing by the first officer to arrive on the scene. They couldn’t find any sign of her arriving.

‘But even if this mysterious reporter was somehow involved,’ Sam said, ‘there’s no way she – or he – could have got out of the van, if she was at the wheel. It’s impossible at that speed.’

Geraldine frowned. ‘Almost impossible,’ she said.

Sam and Bill both turned expectantly to her.

S
he shrugged helplessly.

‘Don’t look at me. I don’t understand it any more than you do. But if this reporter was the only person at the scene, then he or she must have been driving the van. Just don’t ask me how.’

They checked the CCTV film again and caught a glimpse of the reporter hurrying away from the crash. Tall and broad-shouldered, just as the first constable at the scene of the crash had described her, her face was hidden from the camera by her hood.

‘Was it raining?’ Bill asked. He was shrewd for all his good-natured easy manner.

‘It was drizzling,’ Sam replied.

T
he camera picked up someone who could have been their target, striding along Marylebone High Street. In jeans and flat shoes, the figure might have been a man.

‘Her walk reminds me of Piers,’ Geraldine said quietly. ‘But then lots of people walk like that. It’s not conclusive. Still, if that’s a woman, she walks very like a man.’

Glued to the screen, they observed their possible suspect arrive at Baker Street station where they lost her in the throng of jostling travellers. A similar figure went into the Ladies toilet, but they didn’t see her emerge. Bill spotted a tall blonde woman in a hood travelling down one escalator, Sam saw another one walking out of the station. The longer they stared at the moving crowd the more tall people they noticed, with blonde hair, or wearing hoods. Any one of them could have been the killer. Or none of them.

T
HE
REHEARSALS
WERE
PROGRESSING
slowly. They were using Zak’s set for the first time. Several members of the cast were in a muddle about their entrances, although Zak had gone over the script with them, one at a time.

‘It’s not the same when you’re actually on stage with it,’ one of the actors grumbled.

‘It’s so unnecessarily complicated,’ someone else said.

Zak couldn’t see the problem but he kept his cool. The set wasn’t exactly how he had envisaged it anyway. The final word lay with the professional designer who was on board as a mentor for Zak.

‘Think of me as a consultant you can ask if you have any queries,’ he had told Zak before they started work on the production. ‘It’s your set.’

A
s it turned out, the professional had dominated the whole design process, using Zak as a runner and general dogsbody.

‘It’s a great opportunity to learn from a successful theatre designer,’ was all Zak’s tutor had said when he protested.

After that he had kept his frustrations to himself, only sharing them in private with a few sympathetic students on the design course, and his uncle. There was no point in complaining again. No one took any notice of students. Once he graduated, everything would be different. He intended to milk all of his father’s contacts. Armed with a growing list of directors and producers he had met, and his own creative talent, Zak wouldn’t need to rely on his father’s help for long.

N
ear the end of the rehearsal a clumsy actor stumbled and fell against one of the flats, putting his boot right through it. No one seemed to take any notice of the damage to the set. They all clustered around the boy who had tripped.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Is he OK?’

The girls in particular were making a ridiculous fuss. The student hadn’t even hurt himself. Of course it was left to Zak to mend the flat.

‘It shouldn’t take long,’ the visiting designer said glibly. ‘It just needs some tape and a touch of paint.’

The next rehearsal was at half past nine the following morning.

‘You’d better do it now so it can dry overnight,’ his so-called mentor added, handing Zak a key. ‘Well, I’d best be off. Don’t forget to lock the room when you leave. You can let me have the key back tomorrow.’

A
lone, Zak taped and painted, cursing the stupid oaf who had fallen over, the designer who had left him to sort out the mess, as usual, and the director who had left early and knew nothing about the extra time Zak was putting in after everyone else had gone. No one would thank him for staying late. The moron who had knocked over the flat hadn’t even stopped to apologise. It took the best part of an hour to complete the job. At last he was finished. He left the paint and other gear neatly in a corner of the room. That at least could wait until the morning to be returned to the store. With a last look around, he switched off the lights and closed the door, locking it carefully behind him.

I
t was dark in the corridor. As Zak felt around for the light switch there was a faint sound, like a soft sigh. The sudden glare was blinding. Before he could turn round something walloped him hard on the back of his knees. He cried out in pain and shock. His bag slipped from his shoulder as his legs buckled under him.

‘That’s not funny!’ he yelped. ‘That hurt!’

His attacker spun round and turned the light off. Zak barely had time to glimpse the back of a hooded figure before his assailant vanished into the shadows.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he cried out. ‘Put the light on at once!’

For answer, he felt a second whack. This one caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. If it had made direct contact, it could have cracked his skull. As it was, he pitched forward, stunned, jarring his shoulder against the wall. He yelled out in fear. This was no accidental injury. It was a deliberate attack.

‘P
ut the light on! Put the light on!’

He was begging now, afraid he would be badly hurt. He wondered who might want to beat him up, but his mind was too fuddled with fear and pain to think clearly. Still his assailant didn’t speak. The silence was terrifying. An agonising throbbing started in his head, sending splinters darting through his brain. Gingerly he fingered the side of his head. His hair was wet. He put his hand to his lips and the tip of his tongue explored a warm salty taste mingled with the acrid tang of paint. It took a few seconds before he realised he was bleeding. Petrified, he felt himself breathe in staccato bursts.

‘You’ve really hurt me,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve got a head wound for fuck’s sake.’

Everyone knew that head injuries must be taken seriously.

‘I need a doctor. I’m going to be sick. Stop mucking about and put the light on.’

But he knew this wasn’t a fellow student playing a stupid prank to frighten him.

D
esperately he stretched out his arm, his fingers feeling for his bag. There was a window in the door at the far end of the corridor. In the light from the stair well he could dimly see the outline of his bag lying just out of reach, where it had slid along the floor when he fell. He hadn’t switched his phone on after the rehearsal, but if he could just get to it he could try to turn it on and call for help, even though the signal wasn’t strong in the rehearsal block.

‘Listen,’ he gabbled, as he groped forwards. ‘There’s no point mugging me, all I’ve got is a crappy old phone. Actually, it’s not crappy, it’s almost brand new and it’s in my bag. You can have it. I’ll give you the password. And I’ve got a bit of cash. Not much, but you can have it. Only please let me call for help first. I need a doctor. You never meant to hurt me, I know. This is all a mistake. Just take my bag and go, please.’

H
e heard footsteps shuffle towards him before darkness flooded his mind.

T
HE
TEAM
INVESTIGATING
THE
murders of Anna and Bethany were stunned to learn there was a third victim associated with the college, and with Piers.

Sam was aghast. ‘Does this mean his father’s no longer a suspect? I mean, he’s hardly likely to have killed his own son, is he?’

She had voiced the exasperation of most of her colleagues working on the case. Geraldine remembered what Nick had said, ‘It’s never easy letting go of a suspect.’ Even though she hadn’t really believed Piers was guilty of murdering Anna and Bethany, it was still disturbing to hear that the third victim was Piers’ son.

S
he thought back to her few meetings with Zak. He had seemed very young, barely out of adolescence. He hadn’t yet escaped his father’s influence to begin a life of his own.

‘He was only a kid,’ she said aloud.

Reg threw her an inquisitive glance. ‘Your point?’

‘I mean, of course his age makes no difference, but –’ she shrugged helplessly, struggling to express her feelings, ‘he was just very young, that’s all.’

‘All the victims were young,’ someone else responded.

‘But he was Pier’s
son
,’ Sam bleated.

‘W
e don’t know they were all killed by the same person,’ Reg pointed out.

‘Is it possible he was responsible for the deaths of Anna and Bethany because he was insanely jealous of his father’s attention?’ Jayne suggested. ‘His death could be a revenge killing by someone who cared for one or other of his victims and discovered he was the killer.’

‘That makes sense,’ Reg agreed, ‘but we need to gather some evidence about this third death before we start putting forward too many theories. Let’s hope we’re looking for one killer who’s slipped up and left us some incontrovertible proof of his identity this time.’