Grave Doubts (29 page)

‘Why women, not men?’

He felt the flush start in his neck and burn into his face. Even his hands went hot. He broke eye contact and opened one of the bars of chocolate she had brought.

‘Was that a difficult question?’

‘No, just a stupid one.’

‘But men do kill other men and boys as result of sexual assault, don’t they.’

He felt too warm in the room and slightly sick from the chocolate.

‘Could I have some water?’

‘Of course.’

They waited in silence for it to arrive. He drank it down in one gulp.

‘Let’s return to this other killer. What do you think motivates him?’

What a good question. He’d asked himself that once a long time ago, but it had ceased to have any significance before he had been able to answer it. He shook his head and gave his first completely open answer.

‘I honestly don’t know.’

She started asking about prison life and his state of mind – routine stuff that he parried with ease.

‘One of the guards mentioned to me that a colleague had been murdered – a Mr Saunders. How did you feel when he was killed?’

He started in surprise, then made himself relax. She had a habit of doing that, throwing in the odd trick question but he was too smart for her.

‘I didn’t care.’

‘But you didn’t like him, did you?’

‘None of us did. He was a bullying prick.’

‘He died horribly you know.’

He’d heard rumours, of course, and Dave in one of his letters had hinted that it had taken a long time.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He was tortured.’

She was breaking the rules. She shouldn’t be telling him this. Perhaps he’d got to her after all.

‘How?’

‘With an electric drill.’ She was half smiling, as if she found the idea intriguing.

‘Fuck!’ He glanced at her quickly but she didn’t seem to object to his language. The warmth from his face spread down his body in a wave.

‘The killer worked his way through a whole tool kit.’

‘Nails?’

‘Oh yes. Skewered to his couch.’

She was leaning forward. He could see skin between the buttons of her blouse and the heat in his groin became intense.

‘And a staple gun. As well as a Stanley knife of course.’ She tossed the last out as if it was too banal to be worth their interest. He leaned forward, closer to her. Her perfume was light and flowery and he could smell her body beneath it. The skin on her forearms was tanned and covered in soft hair. He was only inches away from being able to stroke it.

She was still smiling as if enjoying the secrets they were sharing.

‘Have you ever wondered,’ she said, ‘what it would be like to do that? To kill a bully of a man? Pay him back?’

Her lips were moist. She looked excited. He’d heard about these women who hung around prisons because deep down they were aroused by the crimes of the men they visited. Some even married prisoners. He imagined that happening. What would the others say, when they saw him with her?

His left hand strayed beneath the table but she didn’t seem to notice. The guard was outside; she’d insisted on privacy and they were quite alone. He touched himself while she carried on smiling at him. Should he reach over and rip that blouse open? Would she cry out for help or lean back with pleasure?

She stood up abruptly, surprising him.

‘My time’s up. If I don’t go now they’ll come in and I’d rather that didn’t happen.’

‘Will you come back?’

‘Would you like me to?’

He told himself to be careful. No woman could be trusted, Dave had taught him that. But he had Wendy didn’t he? Quiet, obedient Wendy whom he had been allowed to share so rarely as a reward. He felt angry. Fuck Dave. He was still in here because he’d screwed up the copy-catting so badly that not even the press had made a connection. He was entitled to his own woman, and if this one fancied him who was Dave to tell him no.

‘Maybe, yes, OK.’

‘You’ll need to ask for me to replace Batchelor. Can you do that?’

‘No problem. When will you be back?’

‘When was your next appointment with him?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘I’ll see you then.’

And with that, she was gone.

Claire sat down in Fenwick’s office in Harlden and rubbed a hand over her face.

‘You look shattered.’

‘It’s been a tough week.’

‘How many times have you seen him?’

‘Three. Any more and he would have grown suspicious.’

‘I wasn’t implying you should have done more. This is fantastic.’ Fenwick tapped a thick report on his desk. ‘How did you get all this out of him?’

‘Don’t ask.’ She closed her eyes for a moment.

‘What did you do, Claire?’ Fenwick was suddenly concerned.

‘You said you were desperate for a lead, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. But not at any cost.’ He stood up and closed the door to his office, giving them privacy.

‘Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t at
any
cost.’ She sounded bitter.

‘What did you do?’

She looked away and shook her head.

‘Claire. What happened? You’d better tell me.’

‘Well, let’s just say I’d rather that you didn’t have to use my report in evidence.’

‘Go on.’

There was a long pause, then she said,

‘Promise me this is between us? That you’ll never tell anyone else?’

‘I promise.’

‘We indulged in a fantasy game the second time I visited, in which we devised ways of killing people.’

She looked up as if daring him to comment. Fenwick kept silent although the implications of what she had done horrified him. If this ever got out her professional reputation, possibly even her career, would be ruined.

‘It made him very excited, sexually I mean, and he ejaculated in front of me. I think it was spontaneous.’

‘Oh, Claire, you poor thing.’ Fenwick flushed with embarrassment for her.

‘It’s OK. I’m fine, really.’

‘Sure you are!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And that was during the second visit?’

‘Yes. Afterwards, he told me about his childhood, well his teenage years, how he’d always had a problem climaxing too quickly. I told him I found that arousing and he told me about the women he’d had and what it was like.’

‘Was he telling the truth?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s very confused about his own sexuality. Something happened to him in puberty. I don’t think it was abuse because he has some residual self-esteem, more than if he had been molested. Maybe it was experimentation, whatever, it was mixed up with violence in some way.’

‘He didn’t have a criminal record before his arrest.’

‘That’s what’s so bizarre. Perhaps it was S&M, consenting adults, or involving animals. I’ve known that.’

‘And I thought I saw filth in my job.’

‘Oh you do, Andrew, you do.’

‘And the third interview.’

‘That could have been difficult. Fortunately I’d had the presence of mind to ask the guard to interrupt us early, otherwise…’

‘Did he touch you?’

‘Yes, but it’s all right, don’t worry. He held my hands. That’s when he told me about his family.’

‘Are the names in here real do you think?’

‘Yes, or very close. It was after he asked me to marry him…’

‘Claire!’

‘…so I think he was telling the truth. Anyway,’ she sighed deeply, ‘the name of the foster home is accurate. I checked.’

‘You shouldn’t have done this.’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Andrew. I can tell that you can’t wait to get started on all that lovely information.’

‘So long as the price wasn’t too high.’

‘Look I’m screwed up but I’m OK. He didn’t get beneath the surface. A good bath, or ten and I’ll be fine.’ She stood up to leave. ‘But Andrew, promise me one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Never, ever, let him get out of prison. OK?’

‘I promise I will do my utmost to keep him inside forever.’

She left. Before the sound of her footsteps had died Fenwick was on the phone to MacIntyre. Five minutes later his driver to London was waiting in the car park and the siren was on before they cleared the gates.

Griffiths waited for Claire to come back. For several days he lived in a warm fantasy that made prison bearable. He didn’t even mind that Dave hadn’t written. There was someone on the outside now who believed he was innocent, would fight for his appeal and marry him on his release. It didn’t matter that she was older, in fact he loved the idea. She would teach him to be slow.

After a week he began to doubt. At first he thought maybe she was ill, or hurt in an accident, but when Batchelor turned up for their regular appointment and would say nothing about her, he began to suspect the truth. She was gone. Like all women she had opened him up and rammed a knife into his heart. Immediately his fantasies changed and he wanted her dead.

On the way to London Fenwick read the report until he felt car sick, and even then he re-read key passages in snatches. When the journey slowed in heavy traffic he made notes, summarising the lines of enquiry that had been opened by Claire’s interviews. MacIntyre was waiting for him, which told Fenwick that the investigation into Lucinda’s murder was making little progress.

‘You said that you’d rather not have to disclose the source of this information so Knotty’s going to help you fill out Griffiths’ background.’

Constable Knots was used to receiving and following oblique instructions without question. He was a tall, gangly young man with a face that resembled a joint of uncooked meat into which two beady blue eyes had been stamped. He had a crop of unerrupted spots on his forehead and something Fenwick imagined was rather nasty under a plaster on his jaw. His mum was probably proud of him but Fenwick’s heart sank at the thought of sharing long hours of investigation with an officer who looked as if he’d only just started wearing long trousers.

‘Griffiths admits to growing up somewhere north of Leicester with a woman he called Auntie, after his mum went off with a lorry driver.

‘He was five when she left. He never knew who his father was and Auntie didn’t have a name. There were a lot of other children in the house so perhaps she was no more than a childminder who was dumped on. Still, we have a geographic area so we can try to find his primary school, assuming he didn’t change his name.’

Knotty made notes in his book and looked up expectantly for more.

‘He went to school for about a year, until one day he came home and Auntie wasn’t there. Someone from Social Services was and he ended up in a children’s home, again he thinks it was in Leicestershire. He was there for three years then he was moved on to a facility between Telford and Shrewsbury. He gave our interviewer an address and the name of the principal: Mr Custer. They either called him cowardly Custer or the General, depending on their mood.

‘This is where things become more interesting. He was fostered when he was about fifteen and the interviewer thinks that the fostering is significant. He revealed so little about it, not even the name of the family or whether there were other children. Whenever the subject came up he became agitated and evasive. It’s probably our best chance of finding any teenage companions.’

‘Is his story to Doctor Batchelor about his foster parents drowning a lie?’

‘Parts of it were certainly lies. We need to try and find them. I think he gave us enough information to trace their address. He used to travel to school by bus, a number 69, the number made him laugh. It was a half-hour walk from his home to the bus stop, then a forty-five-minute journey into Telford. He said that he had to walk whatever the weather and if the river flooded he had to make a detour of a mile over a high bridge.’

Knotty was scribbling madly now. He pushed the tip of his tongue between his teeth when he concentrated, making him look about sixteen.

‘The rest of the report is about his work as a software developer, most of which is already on file.’

‘Knotty’s been on to the personnel department of the company where he worked in Telford. Their Accounts department have found details of the bank they sent his money to but he closed the account shortly after he left the company.’ MacIntyre passed the report over.

‘Why did he leave?’

‘He was asked to. A female colleague alleged that he made an unwelcome pass after a group of them went out drinking together. His mates stood up for him, said the girl was drunk and out of order and that Griffiths simply tried to help her find a taxi. But it was enough for someone in HR to call his previous employer. His references were false. Apparently they hadn’t bothered to check when he joined.’

‘Consistent. This is a man who invents his past as he goes along.’

‘Risky though.’

‘Not necessarily, he got away with it until the complaint. What did he do after he left?’

‘IT contract work as far as we can tell. And we don’t know why he ended up in Sussex, without a job or permanent address.’

MacIntyre sent Knotty away while he brought Fenwick up to date with developments in Wales and closer to home.

‘Although the prints on the knife link to Lucinda’s murder we can’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt. They were only on a bar stool and tests on her wounds have been inconclusive. Bottom line, we need to build a stronger case. The Home Office pathologist is trying to match bite marks from both girls. If he can that will be conclusive but right now we’re no closer to tracing Killer B.

‘We’ve asked to be alerted on all serious crimes against women anywhere in the country. There have been three serious sexual assaults in the UK in the past ten days but none of the physical descriptions match our man.’

‘Have you checked the prints from the knife against those we lifted from Nightingale’s flat?’

‘No…’ the Superintendent paused and suppressed a sigh, ‘but I’ll get someone onto it.’

Fenwick passed the time he spent waiting for Knotty’s return by sitting in on MacIntyre’s case conference and emerged depressed by the lack of progress. The constable found him at lunchtime, his acne glowing pink in excitement.

‘I’ve found the school and the children’s home. Mr Custer has retired but his successor was very helpful. We know the name of his foster parents and where they lived. We tried ringing but some woman said she’d never heard of them. She’s been renting the house for a year, and it had been let before her.’

‘And the foster family’s name?’ Fenwick knew he was grinning like an idiot but he didn’t care.

‘Smith.’ Knotty winced at his boss’s expression.

Fenwick watched Knotty’s delight fade. Something in his expression reminded him of his son Chris and he said, more positively than he felt.

‘But this is progress. We have an address, a family to trace and a school to visit. Did the Smiths have any children?’

‘Yes, a son, a bit older than Griffiths called David.’

‘We need to find out everything we can about Mr David Smith and his parents. Get on to it. I think I’d like to interview Custer personally.’

MacIntyre was not supportive of the idea.

‘It’s a long way to go for what will probably be very little. Send Knotty. He’s good at digging and you’re more use here.’

‘I’d rather go myself.’

Fenwick couldn’t explain to MacIntyre the urge he had to visit the place in which Griffiths had spent some of his childhood. It wasn’t the sort of thing a chief inspector should do, charge half way across England on a lead ten years old, particularly if that chief inspector was on attachment to the Met, where his actions would be under double scrutiny. In the end, Fenwick’s stubbornness wore the Superintendent down but he gave in with bad grace.

Fenwick dismissed MacIntyre’s irritation as he raced up the M1 in an unmarked police car with the obedient Knotty at his side. As soon as the Superintendent established a stronger link between the attack in Wales and Lucinda’s murder he would become disinterested in the Griffiths connection again. Unless he found something substantive as a result of Claire’s work no effort would be spent finding Nightingale and protecting her from Killer B. This trip was his last hope. If David Smith was Killer B he would almost certainly be long gone, but something of him would be there, imprinted in the soil and Knotty would never find it.

They were shown only average courtesy at Telford Police Station. There was a major case on to judge by the atmosphere and visitors from down south were an unwelcome distraction. Knotty returned from the canteen to the tiny office they’d been given with fresh coffee and the latest gossip.

‘They had a murder and an attempted murder a week ago. A passenger suddenly went berserk or something and attacked a taxi driver and his girlfriend. Killed the driver but the girl survived. It’s caused a helluva stink. Apparently he made an emergency call but it took them ages to find him and by then he was well dead.’

‘Really.’ Fenwick gave him one of his ‘keep your nose out of other people’s business’ looks and tapped a fax he’d just received. ‘Concentrate on that and keep your head down, son. It’s what little we have on David Smith.’

And sketchy it was. David Smith had been born twenty-nine years before in Cressage ten miles from Telford. His schooldays had been unremarkable although a spell of illness in his early teens had put him over a year behind. Fenwick completed some quick mental arithmetic. He and Griffiths could have been classmates, just. He left school shortly after his eighteenth birthday, without completing his A’ levels, though he had done well in his earlier exams and had gained a top grade in computer studies.

Fenwick called the research officer at the Met for the name of the mate who’d stood up for Griffiths when he’d been accused of sexual harassment. Two hours later he had confirmation that the name on file was David Smith and a circle closed.

‘Knotty, I want you to trace Mr and Mrs Smith. I’m going to interview Custer. Meet me back here afterwards and we’ll decide what to do next.’

His interview with Custer was disappointing. The man remembered Griffiths as an introverted child with few friends. He hadn’t been in any real trouble, in fact the only time he could recall him being punished had been as the result of a prank by other boys where he’d been the fall guy.

‘So there was nothing strange about him in anyway?’

‘No. I’ve told you, Chief Inspector he was a quiet lad who didn’t have many friends. I can’t imagine him doing any of the crimes you describe. He blushed if a girl so much as looked at him.’

‘And educationally?’

‘About average but a wizard on computers. We didn’t have any in the home but they had a few at his school and he’d stay for computer class. That’s really what led to him being fostered out.’

‘Why?’

‘There was another boy in the computer studies group older than Wayne, who befriended him and eventually persuaded his parents to apply to foster him.’

‘Mr & Mrs Smith?’

Custer nodded and another question-mark disappeared from Fenwick’s mind.

‘Yes. They weren’t on any approved list but the father was a local civil servant of some sort and his wife had been a nurse. They were allowed to foster Wayne for a trial period, then it was extended. I was delighted for the boy.’

Fenwick called Knotty and told him to find Smith senior’s employer but drove back to the station dissatisfied. His assumptions were being confirmed but he’d expected a bigger breakthrough. Knotty was waiting for him with equal disappointment.

‘There’s no trace of Smith senior or his wife since they moved away from Cressage. According to the land registry they still own a house there but it’s rented out. I’ve been on to the letting agents and they’ve confirmed that it was put on their books eight years ago.’

‘By the father?’

‘I didn’t ask. I assume so.’

‘Never assume. Call them back and confirm the exact details. What about Smith’s employer?’

‘He worked in the County Surveyor’s department for twenty-three years before resigning ten years ago and I did manage to find out details of the account they paid his salary into. The building society might have an address.’ He looked up expectantly but Fenwick just nodded as if that was routine. For Knotty it had been close to brilliance.

‘Why did he resign?’

‘No idea. I mean, I didn’t ask, sir. I’ll get right onto it.’ Knotty was beginning to realise that Fenwick didn’t believe in loose ends because they were what tripped you up.

‘See that you do.’ Fenwick shook his head at the constable’s retreating back and went in search of a map to help him find his way to the Smiths’ last known address.

The journey was a fruitless one. Janine Grey, the current tenant, explained that she and her husband knew nothing about the owners and had never met them. Fenwick wasn’t invited inside and reference to an investigation into serious crimes failed to win her cooperation. Frustrated, he turned the car around and headed back to Telford, feeling foolish for having made the journey instead of spending his time in meaningful strategy conferences with senior officers in London. It was what MacIntyre would expect and he was out of line. But instead of returning to the station he contacted Knotty on his radio, found out the address of the building society and drove there himself, propelled by a desire for action, not thought. Thinking was getting him nowhere.

The Coalbrook and Watersmere Building Society had resisted demutualisation, preferring to remain a service for its members and support to the local community. It had three branches and a very loyal customer base.

Fenwick was learning all this and more as he listened to the Chief Executive explain, at length, why he wasn’t going to reveal any of his customers’ private financial information to the police without proper authority. Even the words rape and serial murder failed to have any effect and Fenwick left after a fruitless ten minutes just as the branch was closing for the day.

He stalked off to find the car, oblivious to his surroundings, so he didn’t notice a rather breathless woman trotting alongside him for some time. When he did, he stopped abruptly and so did she.

‘Can I help you?’

The woman had been serving behind the counter in the Society when he’d entered and announced himself. He hadn’t paid her much attention, noting only that she was wearing a twinset like one he’d bought his mother as a Christmas present. She looked over her shoulder furtively then beckoned him a little closer.

‘I may be able to help you,’ she said in a stage whisper, ‘but not here. There’s a tea shop over by the traffic lights, the Black Kettle. I’ll see you there.’ Then she scuttled off, leaving Fenwick to stare after her and wonder whether he’d been mistaken for somebody else.

She was waiting for him at a corner table farthest from the door. A pot of tea for two and a plate of biscuits were being set before her as he walked in.

‘Emily,’ she said thrusting out a bird-like hand. ‘Emily Spinning.’

He took her hand and shook it once.