Frozen (8 page)

The clothes and the shoe in the photograph had been removed, and there was a large dark stain on the carpet where Dudley Jackson's body had been lying.

With some difficulty Megan stepped onto another duck-board, the bulky overalls limiting her movement. She drew level with a dressing table and carefully opened the top drawer. Inside was an assortment of neatly folded underwear. Something hard and shiny stuck out from beneath the pile and Megan pulled back the clothes to see what it was.

The smiling faces of Dudley and Tina Jackson looked up at her. It was a wedding photograph, hidden from view in the same way that Megan had hidden hers.

Charlotte McGahy had been right about her sister. She was beautiful. She reminded Megan of Penelope Cruz. She had that same slightly vulnerable look about her.

‘What have you found? Anything interesting?' Leverton appeared round the doorway, stepping across the boards with apparent ease.

‘No – just a wedding photo. Any news on the friend?'

‘She was with her on the soup run. Says Tina drove herself home from the place they cook it.'

‘Nothing suspicious?'

‘Not that she remembers. Says it was a quiet night.'

‘Where are they based?'

‘It's a house in Cheddar Road. Owned by the woman who set up the charity. It's a women-only thing.'

‘And this Gail didn't have any other ideas? No boyfriend we don't know about?'

‘No.' Leverton frowned. ‘We're going to have to hold a press conference soon: someone's leaked the pathologist's report to the papers. Any chance of you coming up with something by, say, lunchtime tomorrow?'

Megan paused before answering. A press conference? Was this Leverton's idea? It couldn't be. There was no way he would go public on his suspicions if there was any suggestion of police corruption. Either he was playing some game Megan couldn't fathom or someone else had been responsible for the leak.

‘I'll see what I can do.' She moved on. ‘Let's go over what happened here step by step; once I've got all the crime scene evidence I can build up a more detailed description of this killer before I start working on a profile of the guy who murdered Donna.'

‘Okay, this is what the SOCOs have come up with so far: No signs of a break-in – windows all closed and intact and both doors locked; a partial footprint in blood on the landing which doesn't match any footwear belonging to either Dudley or Tina Jackson; a clear footprint of the same shoe in earth next to the path leading from the back door. The toe section was facing away from the house.'

‘So it sounds like he let himself out the back way?'

‘Yes.'

‘Okay,' Megan said. ‘This is what I think might have happened. She gets back from the soup run and goes upstairs to get changed – hence the new outfit we found on the bedroom floor. He's followed her home and is watching the house. Perhaps he catches a glimpse of her through the bedroom curtains and gets even more turned on. He rings the bell and comes up with some hard luck story. Maybe he tells her his car's broken down and asks to use her phone. Anyway he gets into the house.' She peered round the door. ‘Is there a downstairs loo?'

‘No. Why?'

‘Because he had to have some way of getting her upstairs. If he'd dragged her up kicking and screaming there'd be evidence. Scratches or scuff marks on the wallpaper, even traces of blood.'

Megan stepped out on to the landing. ‘He uses the phone and then asks if he can use the loo. She shows him where it is.' Megan waved her arm towards the blue bathroom door. ‘Instead of going in, he grabs her and shoves her into the bedroom, throws her down on the bed. He flips her over and grabs both her wrists. He's got the handcuffs or wire or whatever in his pocket and he restrains her by looping it round the bedrails and then round her wrists. He penetrates her anally and strangles her. When he's finished he undoes her wrists and he's about to leave when the nutty husband arrives.'

Leverton rubbed his chin. ‘How would Dudley have got in? Tina had had the locks changed and it was all locked up when my lads turned up because they had to break the front door down to get in.'

‘She might have left the door on the latch when she let AB in. She wouldn't have been expecting him to stay more than a couple of minutes.'

Leverton nodded.

‘Let's assume Dudley drops the latch behind him because he doesn't want Tina running out of the door. He prowls round the house trying to find out which room she's in. AB hears someone coming. Whoever it is, he's got to get rid of them. He hides behind the door and waits.'

Megan stepped back into the bedroom. ‘There's a mirror on the opposite wall so he can see Dudley before he gets into the room. He grabs him from behind and knocks the gun out of his hand. Then he gets him on the floor and shoots him in the mouth. He blasts Tina in the back to make it look like Dudley did it.

‘He gets out as quickly as he can because he realises people will have heard the shots. He goes out the back door, which locks automatically unless it's been left on the latch. He goes through the back yard into the alley behind the houses and he's away without any of the neighbours seeing him.'

‘Why did he bother to shoot Tina?' said Leverton.

‘It's all part of the game,' Megan said, her voice even.

‘What do you mean?'

Oh come on, Martin, she thought, you're taking this independent, unbiased viewpoint thing a bit far, aren't you? If you think I'm going to come straight out and say it's a copper, you can think again.

‘What I mean,' she said, ‘is that he's deliberately led you all up the garden path because he enjoys it. When the media reported it as a domestic murder followed by a suicide he'd have been revelling in the fact that he'd misled the press, the police – everyone.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘Well, as I said before, the way Natalie and Tina were killed suggests a man who wants revenge for some traumatic event in his life. Often killers like this feel that the world in general has let them down. Any women they attack are vehicles for the rage they feel inside, but fooling the police and the public would give this kind of killer even greater satisfaction.'

‘Like sticking two fingers up at society, you mean?'

‘Exactly. Oh, and there's something else you should ask Tina's sister.'

‘What's that?'

‘Trophies – you know how some serial killers like to take mementoes of their victims?'

‘Like clothing or body parts, you mean?'

‘Yes; we know Tina's body wasn't mutilated in any way but do we know if the killer took anything she was wearing?'

‘We found pants, tights, underskirt, dress and shoes on the floor, so I'm pretty sure he didn't take any of her clothes.'

‘What about jewellery?'

Leverton fished a piece of paper out of the file in his hand. ‘According to the SOCOs she was wearing two rings on her right hand and a pair of gold stud earrings.'

‘So no necklace or bracelets?'

‘No – nothing else.'

‘I think that if she was dressed up for a special night out there's a good chance she'd be wearing more jewellery than that.'

‘You're right. And I suppose Charlotte would know if anything was missing from Tina's jewellery box – they seemed pretty close.'

Megan nodded. Like everything else it was a long shot, but if the killer had taken something distinctive and it was described at the press conference there was a chance someone who recognised it might come forward.

It wasn't unknown for serial murderers to give trinkets taken from their victims to their wives or children as presents. It gave them the same sort of kick as revisiting the scene of the crime or seeing the murder reported on TV.

She wondered what Leverton would do with this piece of information. She realised now that he was unsure about the identity of Tina Jackson's killer. Yesterday in his office Megan had got the impression that he suspected someone in his own force – someone in particular – of being involved in the prostitute murders. But the Jackson case seemed to have shaken his confidence. What was going on in his mind? Had it suddenly occurred to him that he might have got it all wrong?

She opened her bag, looking for her car keys, and caught sight of the bundle of pastel envelopes she had taken from Delva.

‘Martin,' she began, ‘it's my turn to ask you a favour.' As soon as the words were out she regretted them. She hated the thought of being beholden to him.

Leverton raised his eyebrows.

‘It's about Delva Lobelo – the newsreader at BTV. She's been getting some very unpleasant mail.' Her teeth clenched, she handed him one of the letters.

He took it out of the envelope, looked at the picture of the squatting woman and grunted. Megan saw the hint of a smile on his face.

‘This is serious. She's had dozens of these.'

He shrugged. ‘There's a lot of strange people out there and a lot of them watch television.'

Megan felt heat rising from her neck to her face.

‘From what's in the letters I think it's probably someone she works with.' She looked him in the eye. ‘I've come across too many cases like this before, Martin. You might think it's harmless, but I know what it can lead to.'

He gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right, all right. I'll send a uniform round there tomorrow.'

‘She's already been to your lot and they weren't interested.'

‘Well, the sight of a boy in blue in the building might do the trick if it's a work colleague.'

She frowned. He was being condescending.

‘Happy now?'

She bit her tongue, realising there wasn't much else she could do.

*   *   *

When Megan got home she flicked on the hall light and hung up her coat. As she did so something caught her eye. On the shelf above the hall radiator was a display of shells brought back from Borth. She had arranged them in three groups, each with a piece of driftwood behind it. But someone had re-arranged them: the shells were all together at one end of the shelf and the three pieces of driftwood at the other.

Had Emily done it? Megan frowned. It was more than a week since her niece's last visit. Surely she would have noticed before now? She hastily re-arranged the shells and the wood, feeling slightly uneasy. Tony was the only other person with a key. Had he been sneaking around while she was at work? She couldn't imagine why. He'd cleared out his stuff months ago. Perhaps it was time to get the locks changed. The image of Tina Jackson on the mortuary slab leapt into her mind and she shuddered.

*   *   *

Delva Lobelo hadn't enjoyed her supper very much. Whenever she was on a late shift she had to decide between venturing into the city centre to eat in a restaurant or going to the BTV canteen.

Either way she usually ended up eating alone, so it was a straight choice between good food eaten in public or lousy food eaten in private. She usually went to the canteen because it was less hassle. Being stared at by curious members of the public made her feel like an animal in a zoo.

Tonight the canteen menu had plumbed new depths. The top layer of the vegetable lasagna would not have looked out of place wrapped around the wheel of a mountain bike and the cheesecake tasted like toothpaste.

Delva took the lift back up to the newsroom. Her stomach felt heavy and her waistband was uncomfortably tight. It had been a nightmare of a day and she found herself wishing away the next three hours, longing for home and bed.

Before she reached her desk she saw something on it that made her feel sick. It was another pastel-coloured envelope. Someone must have put it there while she was in the canteen. She spun round, her eyes scanning the rows of empty desks. The only other person in the room was the night sub. Delva strode across to the other woman's desk.

‘Jane – did you put this on my desk?'

‘No – what is it? Not another pervy letter?'

‘Looks like it.' Delva's eyes were blazing as she ripped it open. ‘Oh my God … look at this!'

‘Bloody hell, Delva, that's appalling. I mean, this is something else, isn't it? That's a Polaroid photograph – not something he's cut out of a magazine.'

‘Did you see anyone come in here while I was in the canteen?'

‘No. I nipped out for a sandwich but I was only gone ten minutes or so.'

Delva marched down the stairs to the front desk.

‘Have you let anyone other than staff into the building over the past hour?'

The security guard was a scrawny, elderly man and Delva towered over him. Her abrupt manner took him by surprise and he stared blankly at her for a moment before glancing at the visitors book in front of him.

‘Er, no. Not since twenty-five to seven.'

‘Who came in then?'

‘A guest for the programme: Stuart Booth. You know – you interviewed him about the turkey rustlers.'

Delva sighed impatiently. ‘I know who he is. Look, is your boss still in the building?'

‘Er, I shouldn't think so, no. Shall I check for you?'

Delva took a deep breath, trying not to lose her temper. ‘Yes, if it's not too much trouble.' She barked out the words and the man fumbled with his walkie-talkie, turning his face from her withering gaze.

‘Hello, Frank? Has Dave Simon gone home?' The walkie-talkie squawked a reply and the guard turned to Delva apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, he's gone. But you can phone him if it's something urgent. His number's on the wall in back security – okay?'

‘Thanks.' Delva spat out the word between clenched teeth, covering the distance between the front desk and the back entrance to the building in a matter of seconds. This so-called head of security was going to get a roasting.

As she approached the security booth she could see that the door was slightly ajar. Two men were sitting inside, leering and sniggering at something in a newspaper. She slowed down, creeping softly as a cat along the corridor. The newspaper's masthead had given them away. From the doorway Delva saw what they were looking at before they saw her.