Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows (33 page)

On Valentine’s Day, he would make them look even more stupid.

Jill almost jumped out of her chair at the knock on the door. She laughed at herself. That would teach her to watch horror films on her own.

She’d been edgy all day as she waited for something to happen. Yet nothing had. No Valentine’s cards had arrived. There had been no floral deliveries. As far as she knew, no girls had been reported missing. Valentine’s Day was almost over and, as yet, nothing untoward had happened.

Her smile quickly died. It was a few minutes before ten, late for visitors, and she hoped it wasn’t Ella with bad news about Tom.

She slipped on her shoes and hurried to the door.

It was a relief to see Bob standing there.

‘Hello, Bob, you gave me a fright. I was watching a horror film and the noise made me jump. Then I wondered if it might be Ella with bad news. Come in.’ She closed the door after him, shutting out the cold, wet night. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard how Tom is?’

‘No.’

The abrupt answer and his lack of interest took her by surprise.

She was about to comment on it when he turned around, locked her front door - and slipped the keys in his pocket.

It was Valentine’s Day. Valentine was a strong man; Bob was strong. Hadn’t she laughed with Ella about his stunning physique? They never did find out who started that fire.

No! Oh, no!

The bile was already rising in Jill’s throat. Paranoia, she told herself …

‘What -?’ Her throat was suddenly too dry to get the words out. They never did find out who started that fire.

‘One day you’ll be mine,’ he said, and there was a light of triumph in his eyes as a gurgle of almost childish laughter escaped him.

She turned in panic, but he was too fast - and strong.

His leg flew out to trip her, and her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip as she fell.

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ He took a knife from his pocket, and the blade glinted in the glow of the lamps. Then, with that in one hand, he quickly tied her wrists tight behind her back. He tied her feet together at the ankles.

Think, Jill’s mind was screaming at her. Think!

Yet she couldn’t think. Not a single coherent thought came to her. All she seemed capable of was making terrified, babbling noises. Think, think, think!

‘You’re so dim,’ he said scathingly. ‘You, those stupid police officers who were watching this place - they couldn’t watch grass grow - and that jumped-up detective Trentham.’

Play to his ego, Jill told herself. Flatter him. Let him bask in his small glory.

He’d locked the front door but she was fairly sure the back door was still open. She’d been in and out a couple of times, messing around with the cats, and, unless she was having a major panic, she often forgot to lock it until she went to bed. Keep that bloody door locked. Sorry, Max, but I’m fairly sure the back door is still unlocked and it might, just might, save my life. Dear God, she hoped it was open. If it was locked, the key was on the ring in his pocket …

Yet how the hell could she get to the door? Her arms and legs were tied.

Think, think, think!

She could scream, but no one would hear. Her mobile phone was in the kitchen so she couldn’t even send a text message. Someone might phone her, but he wouldn’t let her answer it. It was getting late for phone calls anyway.

If someone did phone, and if she could persuade him to let her answer it, she could pretend it was Ella with news of Tom and, somehow, let that caller know she was being held.

‘It’s not that we’re stupid,’ she said, amazed by two things - one that her voice was audible and two that she sounded reasonably calm - ‘it’s more that you’re so clever.

We’ve always known that. No one working on your case has agreed on much - other than the fact that you’re the cleverest killer they’ve ever come across.’

They never did find out who started that fire.

Of all the people in the world, Bob Murphy was probably the man she would have suspected least. Everyone liked him. Everyone in Kelton Bridge thought he was marvellous. He did a good job, they said, and he was reliable. The women worshipped him. Even Ella had noticed how good his body was.

‘You with your fancy profiling,’ he scoffed. ‘All the locals think you’re a miracle worker, that you can read minds ‘

‘No.’

‘The local celebrity.’ His voice was sneering.

‘You’re the local celebrity,’ she said. ‘People will talk of you for years to come. For as long as people live, they’ll talk about you.’

He dragged her to her feet - God, he was strong - and pushed her down into the chair in front of her desk. Then he leaned back against her desk, facing her. The frighteningly sharp-looking knife was only inches from her throat.

Play for time. Flatter him. So long as there was time, there was hope.

‘Why me?’ she asked. ‘You’ve always killed women who ‘

‘Whores!’ He spat out the word. ‘Dirty, filthy, cheap little whores.’

His anger was tangible.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, too terrified to argue with him, or point out that Anne Levington had been a young girl whose life had gone so sadly wrong. ‘So why me?’

‘It’s time Trentham had something to think about. I’m sick of seeing that smug face of his on my television.’

‘That was because of Jonathan and Alice Trueman,’

she said.

‘And what did he care? Huh? So long as it’s his face on the screen, his name in the papers, he doesn’t care who lives or who dies.’

Bob wanted the fame for himself. What he wouldn’t know was that Max hated the press conferences. Given the choice, Max would let someone else do them, and he certainly wouldn’t agree to one unless he thought it would help an investigation.

Yet Bob wanted his picture on the small screen.

‘What does he care if the odd whore gets killed?’ Bob went on. ‘He doesn’t. Who does?’

Max cared.

‘You think he’ll care if I’m killed?’ she asked. ‘He won’t, you know. I’m just someone he works with, that’s all.’

‘Don’t try and be clever with me. I’ve seen how much time he spends with you. I’ve seen his kids with you.’

‘We used to be friends, but that was a long time ago.’

Her phone rang out, pushing her nerves to breaking point, and she gave him an appealing look.

“It might be Ella with news of Tom. She said she might call. It’s late and she’ll think it odd if I don’t answer. She might come and investigate.’

He rammed his hand down on her shoulder, just in case she thought of moving. The knife was icy cold against her neck.

‘Don’t try and be clever with me.’

Jill only wished she could.

‘You’ve reached Jill Kennedy …’ Her recorded message sounded so carefree. Another world.

‘It’s only me, Jill,’ Ella said. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit late. You’ve probably gone to bed. Just thought I’d let you know that Tom should be home tomorrow. He’s much better, thank God. Oh, and Don Cornwall? It came to me, and it’s nothing to do with your Don. The Don Cornwall I was thinking of was a pal of Tom’s. If he hadn’t died last year, he’d be eighty-three now. Anyway, I’ll catch you tomorrow.’

The machine clicked off just as a burst of canned laughter came from the television.

Jill felt an almost overwhelming urge to burst into tears, and the knowledge infuriated her. Hard facts: he’d killed several times; he killed with a casual ease; he was good at it. She recalled the photographs of all the girls he’d killed.

If she didn’t outwit him, she would end up just like them, strangled, and with heart-shaped pieces of skin removed from her lifeless body.

‘Why me?’ she asked again.

‘Told you.’

He was short, snappy, disinclined to talk. She had to make him talk.

‘I’ve sat for hours at this desk working on your profile.’

Her only hope was to keep him talking. Until what? She didn’t know. She only knew that she had to keep him talking. ‘Not that it did me much good. That computer ‘

she pointed at it - ‘is full of stuff about you.’ She paused, letting him mull that over. ‘Pages and pages and pages of reports on you. There are notes about the people who have claimed to be you. Oh, yes, they’ve all wanted to be you.

We’ve been able to suss them out straightaway, though.

We’ve known they aren’t as clever as you. My report says …’ She paused again. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter what my report says, does it? I like to think it was a fairly good profile of you but - well, we’ll never know.’

He was breathing hard.

Then, just as Jill had hoped, his ego got the better of him.

He hit the button, and switched on her laptop.

‘We’ve got all night,’ he said.

Max was uneasy. Every time his car phone rang, he expected the worst.

Valentine’s Day had started bright and sunny, completely at odds with his mood, but the weather had soon deteriorated.

Perhaps Jill was wrong; perhaps Valentine wouldn’t strike today. She’d been fairly confident of that, though.

More confident, in fact, than she’d been of anything for a long time.

Was Cornwall taking her seriously? Max wasn’t sure.

Having said that, there were more patrol cars on the streets than usual.

His phone rang and he saw from the display that it was Fletch.

‘Where are you, guv?’

‘Preston,’ Max said vaguely.

Jill had thought Cornwall might patrol the streets of Preston single-handed, and that’s exactly what Max was doing. Unlike Cornwall, though, he had no choice. His neck would be on the line if they thought he was even thinking about Valentine.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘At home. Where you should be.’

Max should. What did he expect to see in Preston?

Nothing really. What was the point of driving round and round the blasted town?

‘You’re probably right,’ Max agreed. He was definitely right. “I just thought I’d have a look round. There’s not much happening. I’ll be heading home myself in a minute.’

Jill had thought Valentine might strike today, and she’d thought he might strike in Preston. She could be wrong.

He might strike tomorrow. Worse, he could have got his victim last night. There had been no reports of missing working girls, but that meant nothing. And he might fancy Blackpool or Burnley. Who knew? Certainly not Max.

‘So if there’s not much happening,’ Fletch pointed out, ‘you may as well go home now. Unless you’re enjoying driving round the fleshpots of Preston.’

Max wasn’t. It was pissing down with rain yet, despite the weather, there were a few louts on the streets, young kids kicking tin cans around.

‘There aren’t many girls around,’ he told Fletch. ‘If I had cash burning a hole in my wallet, I’d be hard pushed to find one.’

‘That’s a good thing. I reckon they’re more twitchy than usual.’

‘They damn well ought to be. They’ve been warned.’

‘Yeah.’ There was a pause. ‘Go home, guv,’ Fletch said with a sigh. ‘You were pulled off the case, remember?’

‘Yes, and you’re right. “I’ll be going home in a minute.’

Max spent another hour driving round the wet, dark streets of Preston. What did he expect to see? A prostitute getting into a black or dark blue Mondeo?

The shop windows were still decked out with red roses and hearts. The pubs were doing a good trade by the look of things, and a lot of them had special offers - cheap drinks for Valentine’s Day. Couples, the blokes in shirts, and the girls dressed in nothing worth wearing, walked the streets, going from one pub to the next. It was just a normal night.

He should go home. He’d already had warnings from above about his lack of ability to delegate, interviewing people when less senior officers should be doing it, forgetting he was part of a team and all the rest of it.

He was driving out of town, eyes still boring into every person on the street, checking every car

Looming

out of the darkness, he saw it. The Newland

Hotel. There was scaffolding around it, signs keeping people out of what was, at the moment, a construction site.

There, on a huge yellow board in bright red lettering, was the name of the company doing the refurbishment.

Not P and R Projects, as Bob Murphy had said, but Drake Construction Ltd.

Max pulled over, switched off the engine and stared at the sign. So Bob Murphy had got the name wrong. Or he hadn’t been anywhere near this site on the night he’d been nicked for that defective light.

I get a taxi home and fetch the van in the morning.

Max hit the button on his phone.

‘Robert Murphy got a parking ticket on the thirteenth of November,’ he explained, his mind working fast. ‘Apparently, he parks in front of a street camera. I want the camera checked for that night, and I need to know if his white van was parked there all night. You can’t miss it. It’s got R. Murphy Building Contractor scrawled all over it.’

Who’s to say Bob Murphy even watched the United game? He could have read all about it in the morning’s papers.

While United’s finest were playing their socks off, Bob Murphy could have been killing Anne Levington.

If the yobs of Rawtenstall decide to nick the wheels, at least they’ll be caught on camera …

Did Murphy park in front of that camera to ward off Rawtenstall’s yobs? Or did he park there to give himself an alibi?

‘You fucking idiot, Trentham!’

He was on the phone again, his words falling over themselves in his attempt to get them out quickly.

‘That camera in Rawtenstall,’ he said, “I want it checked for the twentieth of December - the night Janie Fisher called us. I want to know if Murphy’s white van was parked outside that pub.’

He drove fast, shouting instructions down his phone as he did so.

Then he phoned Fletch and gave him his possibly half baked theory

‘I’ll meet you at Murphy’s place,’ Fletch said doubtfully.

‘You could be reading something into nothing, though, guv.

Perhaps he just got the name of the contractor wrong.’

‘Yeah, and a fucking pink farmyard animal just flew over my bonnet. There are too many coincidences for my liking. I’m convinced the bastard’s using that fucking van as a decoy. He leaves it in full view of a camera, then goes out in his bloody Mondeo.’