Laughing Boy (28 page)

“I think we’d better go to the station, Monica,” I said. “I need a statement from you.”

Forensic didn’t find anything on the latest letter, apart from traces of talcum powder as used to lubricate some types of latex gloves. Our man, scientific branch suggested, was “forensically aware”. This meant that he was either a police officer or he watched true crime programmes on Channel 5.

I’d sent Mrs Ferriby on her way and was up in my office, catching up on the day’s mail, when Pete and Dave came in.

“Bugger all!” I said, handing them the report.

They read it together and one of them said: “That’s a
disappointment
.”

“A disappointment! A disappointment! It’s a sodding tragedy.”

“There’s still Mrs Whatsername’s stalker,” Dave said. “That might turn to gold.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. So what else is new?”

“Young Graham Allen is up to something,” Peter replied. “He’s mixed up with a character called Bernie Cole who has lots of form for receiving and fraud. Cole leases the unit next door to Mister Blue in the precinct but he doesn’t trade from it. This morning he took delivery of two huge boxes and Graham supervised the unloading. Then he met Cole for lunch and they had a cosy
tête-à-tête
over beef Wellington at Fidelio’s.”

“I hope your man wasn’t watching from the next table.”

“No. He had his nose pressed against the window.”

“Good, but it’s not much, is it?”

“That’s not all. Cole then went off and visited a little
factory
off Bean Street, where they produce children’s clothes for the cheaper end of the market. It’s a sweatshop. After he’d left we had a word with the foreman there and leaned on him a little. He no doubt has things he’d prefer the authorities not to know about so he was eager to co-operate. Cole spoke to a couple of the girls, offered them some extra work for Saturday afternoon at his shop in the precinct.”

“Maybe he wants some sewing done.”

Pete shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”

“So what do you think they’re up to?”

“Something.”

“That’s not enough to get a warrant to raid the premises.”

“I know.”

“OK. Let me tell you what I know. Graham Allen is a dealer. Well, a pusher. He’s been supplying Ferriby, the man next door, with heroin for the last eight years.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Scout’s honour.”

“Who told you this?”

“Monica Ferriby, his wife.”

“Well that should be enough for a warrant.”

“Can I leave it with you?”

“You bet! Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Is there a match on?”

“Only Chesterfield.”

“Tomorrow it is, then.”

I told the super what was happening and finished doing paperwork. One of the by-products of a murder hunt is that all sorts of other crimes are cleared up. We’d catch a
small-time
dealer but were no nearer the murderer. At about half past six I was tidying my desk when the phone rang again. It was Rod. I’d forgotten about Rod.

“Hi, Boss. It’s Rod at the cemetery. Ferriby’s just packed all his stuff in his car, looks as if he’s going home. What do you want us to do?”

“You’d better do the same, then, Rod,” I told him.

“Do you want us to pick him up again in the morning?”

“Um, no, come in here. Oh, and keep the afternoon free.”

I told the front desk that very shortly they’d be receiving a call from an irate citizen who’d found all his clothes slashed and I had a word with drug squad. They had no
intelligence
whatsoever about Cole, Graham Allen or Mister Blue, but wanted part of the action. I gave them a formal invitation to the party, put my jacket on and placed my mug on the tray with the other dirty ones. If we don’t take her for granted the cleaning lady washes up for us.

There was a reception committee waiting on the front steps for me, comprised of a young woman in an ambitious suit and an I-mean-business hairdo, a cameraman and a
spotty
youth with a sound boom.

“Inspector Priest,” she gabbled, “Belinda Mayhew, Triple K News, is it true that you have consulted a medium in your attempts to find the murderer who is terrorising the
district
.”

“No,” I replied, ducking under the boom which the youth was waving around as if he’d just caught a squirrel on
the end of a pole.

“That’s not the information that’s coming out of
headquarters
.”

“Well have a word with headquarters, then.”

“We have done. They say that Julia LeStrang, the
well-known
psychic healer and medium, is assisting you with your enquiries.”

I’d reached my car. I opened the door and stood with one foot inside. “Perhaps,” I began, “perhaps she’s assisting us on the psychic level, and the news hasn’t filtered down to me yet. Meanwhile, I deal with facts, not hocus-pocus.”

“Are you any nearer finding the killer.”

That was the sucker punch. I dropped my head for a
second
, then shook it. “No,” I admitted. “I’m afraid we’re not.”

“Do you expect him to kill again?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Then why not allow her to help you?”

I was on TV. People were being murdered and this woman with the
fuck-you
haircut was making me look like a
monster
. I said: “We need all the help we can get. If any of your viewers have any suspicions about somebody they know, then I beg of them to inform us. Somebody somewhere must know who this person is. He has brothers and sisters, parents, a wife or a girlfriend. Please voice your suspicions before he kills again.”

I slipped into the driving seat and slammed the door. She turned to the camera looking pleased with herself as she recited her by-line, and I drove off.

Saturday morning Mrs Jordan-Keedy came in to work on the train but the only person following her was one of the team. She had a busy morning in the office and caught the 13:17 back to Salford.

The drugs squad brought their latest secret weapon with them. She’s called Delilah and she stared at me with eyes like chocolate marshmallows all through the briefing. I
desperately 
wanted to tickle her behind the ears, but wasn’t sure if that was permissible. At five to two we received a message saying that two Asian girls had arrived at Mister Blue and Graham Allen had taken them next door, to the unit leased by Bernie Cole. Everybody except me decanted down to the mall.

I picked up all their coffee cups and took them along the corridor to the kitchen. This time I rinsed them under the tap myself and left them to dry, upside down. Back in the office I found my drawing pad again and spread it out on a spare desk, but I wasn’t in the mood for sketching.

The psychologists call it his signature. The MO is how he does the deed – in this case bludgeoning, stabbing and
strangling
– but everything else he does, all the unnecessary stuff, is his signature. Except, with this one, it was more what he didn’t do.

One thing was certain – he wasn’t mentally ill. At least not by the normal parameters. He was cold, calculating and intelligent, and that meant sane. A classic sociopath if ever I knew one. The phone rang.

“Charlie,” I said into it.

“It’s Dave. T1 is back in Mister Blue. He’s left the girls in the shop next door.”

“Can you see them in there?”

“No, they’re in the back room. There’s some right talent going in and out of Mister Blue, though. You ought to be here.”

“No sign of Cole?”

“Afraid not.”

“OK, keep me informed.”

“Will do.”

Chances were that our strangler had lived down south, in North London, and had moved up here. Not necessarily, but it looked that way. I had somebody checking the feasibility of comparing electoral rolls, but they are not updated very often and he could have changed his name. And if he was
drawing benefits the DSS in both places would know about him, so we were checking with them, too, but they were longshots.

Was he married? That was a dodgy one. Inadequate
singletons
often try to strike up a relationship with their
victims
, but this one just killed them. If he’d come into the killing business by accident, after a road traffic accident as Chief Superintendent Natrass had suggested, it was
probably
arbitrary whether he was married or not. Then there was that eighteen-month gap. Had he married in that time, or divorced? Had he found a soul-mate and resumed his evil ways with her? A female friend would certainly help with the abductions. I left that one open.

“These seats in the mall aren’t half uncomfortable,” Dave complained, next time he rang. “My arse is as numb as a
penguin’s
fanny, and they don’t have a backrest.”

“That’s so you don’t linger too long on them,” I told him. “They want you on your feet, doing the shops, not loungingaround all afternoon.”

“The crafty so-and-sos.”

“There’s no clock anywhere for the same reason. You’re supposed to lose all track of time as you enjoy the unique shopping experience. The architects who design these malls are cynical bastards. So what’s happening?”

“I’m having a doughnut.”

“Good, keep your strength up.”

How old was he? Twenty to thirty? No, probably older than that. Rapists were usually younger, serial killers a bit older. Call it twenty-five to thirty-five, but what difference did it make?

Lifestyle and class. Did he work for a living and if so, at what? Did his job not bring him into contact with the
opposite
sex? Was he a loner, introverted?

How was I supposed to know? How the
fuck
did they expect me to know? I ripped the sheet off the pad, which was a waste of paper because I’d hardly written anything on
it, and ripped it into shreds.

The phone rang again before I could snap all the pencils and trash the office.

“Charlie!”

“T2 has arrived but unfortunately T1 is back in Mister Blue.”

“Damn. We need both of them in there, if possible.”

“I know. I’m in the Happy Burger now, having one, just across the way. It’s much more comfortable in here.”

“As long as you’re happy.”

One of the problems was that the game was changing all the time. Sex was starting to rear its ugly head. The reasons for the latest killings were probably different to those for the early ones. I tipped my chair against the wall, put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes.

The phone woke me. “Don’t tell me – you’re having a milk shake.”

“No.”

“You’ve been sick.”

“No.”

“Go on, then.”

“We’re working, you know. We’re not just having a good time. I could be at the match this afternoon, even if it is only Chesterfield.”

“I’m suitably chastised. So what’s happening?”

“T2 joined T1 in Mister Blue, then they went for a bite at the Italian place upstairs. Now T1 is in Mister Blue and T2 is next door, or maybe it’s the other way round.”

“Allen’s in his shop and Cole’s in his.”

“That’s it.”

“Well why not say so.”

“Because that’s not the proper way.”

“OK, keep watching. What’s Delilah up to?”

“Don’t know. They don’t allow dogs in the mall.”

“Eh! Since when?”

“It’s a by-law.”

“So the whole operation is in jeopardy because of some poxy little by-law?”

“They’ll bring her in when necessary.”

“They’d better.”

At four o’clock I made a coffee and took it into my little office. The phone was ringing again before I’d taken the first sip.

“Charlie,” I said.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sir,” I heard Sparky intone. “This is DC Sparkington. Just thought you’d like to know that we have apprehended two gentlemen in a shop in the mall under suspicious circumstances.”

“I’m on my way!” I told him as I grabbed my jacket from behind the door.

Quite a crowd had gathered around the entrance to the shop. I muscled my way through and winked at the two
bobbies
standing implacably in either side of the doorway. Their big hats made them look about seven feet tall and their
uniforms
bristled with all the paraphernalia that a modern policeman carries: extending side-handle baton, radio,
pepper
spray, handcuffs and a pouch of documents, ready to start the paperwork. Mustn’t forget the paperwork. The front of the shop was empty, all the activity taking place in the back rooms.

The two Asian girls were sitting at one side, looking like a pair of frightened mice. Serena, our only Asian WPC, was kneeling before them, pouring on the reassurance. Graham Allen and Bernie Cole were seated in another corner,
dejection
oozing from every fibre of their bodies as Sparky went through the routine of asking them the preliminary questions.

“I’m not saying nowt without my solicitor,” Cole asserted.

“Take him in,” I said to Dave with a shrug. He was already handcuffed. They’d march him through the mall to the police van with his jacket over his head, and that would probably be the hardest part of whatever happened to him.
Indignity and embarrassment are powerful forces. Once he was in the dock, with his senses and sensibilities gathered and reinforced by a solicitor, he’d be as cocky as a bantam. But right now he was smarting, and if I could have rubbed salt in I would have.

This was the stockroom, I thought, looking around. The walls were lined with shelves and about a quarter of them were piled up with denim clothing, probably all jeans. Two heavy-duty sewing machines were against one wall,
illuminated
by Anglepoise lamps, and two of my detectives and two from drugs were rummaging about in a pair of large cardboard boxes that stood next to the sewing machines.

One of the detectives came over with a large manila envelope and handed it to me. It was bulging with
designer
labels as sewn on the backs of jeans. He gestured for me to follow him and indicated piles of the labels on the sewing machines, then pointed to the floor which was
scattered
with other labels. These had strands of cotton
blurring
the edges and had been removed by the girls from all the garments that were heaped near their machines. A movement caught my eye and I realised it was Delilah’s tail, poking out from a pile of cardboard boxes, vibrating like a fiddler’s elbow.