Stop Dead (25 page)

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I came to see you –’

Her voice wavered.

‘Keep it down, will you? No one else needs to hear this.’

Through the open door, Guy thought he heard his mates laughing and felt his temper rise. She was lucky they were in public or he would have been tempted to teach her a lesson for showing him up like this.

At first Amy refused to believe he didn’t want anything more to do with her.

‘It’ll die down,’ she protested. ‘All this fuss with the police. They can’t keep hassling us forever. It’ll be alright. You’ll see. You’re not even a suspect any more. We can go back to how we were …’

‘No,’ he assured her, speaking as firmly as he could in a low undertone. ‘Things will never go back to how they were. It’s over, Amy.’

‘You can’t mean that.’

He replied in a furious whisper.

‘Leave me alone, will you? Don’t you get it, I’m sick of you, sick of the whole damn business.’

‘But you and me, we’re –’

She reached out and put her hand on his arm. Guy stepped back but she clung on, her long nails clutching at his sleeve. He looked at the bright red varnish that had once seemed so glamorous, and felt sick.

‘There is no you and me,’ he hissed. ‘What the hell are you thinking?’

He glanced over his shoulder to check no one was watching.

‘You told the police
I
was responsible for what happened to your old man,’ he reminded her. ‘How the hell could there be anything between us after that? I can’t trust you any more. I can’t stand the sight of you, not after what you put me through. Just get lost will you, I don’t want to see you again.’

Amy gave a low whimper, like a small dog. He pulled away from her, vexed that she was making such a fool of herself. All he wanted to do was forget the whole horrible affair.

‘I don’t want to see you again,’ he repeated.

He turned and marched off without a backward glance.

M
aurice Bradford had never married. His only sibling had emigrated to Australia over thirty years earlier. A relative was traced living in South London, the grandson of a cousin who had moved to Scotland. The local force sent an officer round to notify him, and the young man reluctantly agreed to identify the body. Geraldine decided to go along and question him, hoping to discover a connection between Maurice and at least one of the other victims, other than the identical manner in which they had been killed. But she didn’t feel very optimistic about the outcome. Maurice clearly couldn’t afford to patronise a restaurant like Mireille, and there was no evidence of gambling in his meagre financial arrangements.

Maurice’s distant relative, Edgar Hilton, turned out to be a young man in his twenties, sharply dressed in a pin-striped suit, brilliant white shirt and no tie. His shoes, which were highly polished, beat out a loud rhythm on the floor as he followed close on Geraldine’s heels to where the old man’s small body lay almost hidden. Only a tiny head with a peaked nose showed above the covering, his face ashen, as though carved in marble. The young man glanced down for a second before turning away with a perfunctory nod, his face twisted in a grimace.

‘Yes, that’s him alright. That’s Uncle Maurice.’

A gold ring glittered on his little finger as he ran a hand through his cropped dark hair.

‘Jesus, I hardly recognised him. He looks well weird. What the hell happened to him?’

‘He was found in the canal.’

‘He drowned?’

‘Something like that.’

Leaving the viewing room, Geraldine steered the young man towards a row of chairs, asking if he would sit down for a moment to answer a few questions. Once they were seated she told him that although his uncle had been found in the canal, he hadn’t actually drowned. She felt a flicker of anger when the young man didn’t seem in the slightest bit curious.

‘He’s more of a distant cousin of some sort, not really an uncle,’ he explained, as though that made a difference.

He looked interested for the first time when Geraldine explained that his relative had been murdered.

‘Why? I mean, who on earth would want to kill him? He was completely harmless, and it’s not like he had money or anything. According to my mother, he was as poor as a church mouse, just a poor old bloke living on his own. Oh well, takes all sorts I suppose. But bloody hell, he must have been some sick bastard to do away with poor old Uncle Maurice.’

When Geraldine was silent, he shrugged and stood up.

‘That’s it, then, is it? I can go now? Only I really do have to get back to work.’

Geraldine nodded and he thanked her glibly for letting him know about the death.

‘Will you keep us posted? I mean, when you find out who did it. I think my mother would like to know it’s all been sorted out. She was quite upset when she heard he was dead. Seems she was quite fond of the old bloke, even though we didn’t see him any more. I mean, he’s still family, and all that. I think she’d like to know that you got the bastard who mugged him.’

Geraldine assured him they would be in touch as soon as they had any news.

At the door Edgar half turned, his slender fingers on the handle.

‘We can leave it to you to sort out the funeral and all that, can’t we? I mean, my parents are in Scotland. I would see to it myself but I’ve got a lot on right now and I can’t really commit myself without knowing what’s involved. In any case,’ he went on apologetically, ‘I hardly knew my uncle, not really. I haven’t seen him in years. He used to come over to us for Christmas when I was a kid but then my parents moved to Edinburgh so I started going up there for Christmas, and we lost touch with Uncle Maurice. You know how it is.’

Geraldine smiled sadly at him.

‘Yes, I know how it is.’

Discussing the gist of the case with Nick, Geraldine couldn’t hide her dismay at the fact that they seemed to be going backwards with the investigation since the discovery of a third victim. Geraldine had dealt with murderers who knew their victims, and with rarer instances of psychopaths who killed random strangers, but she hadn’t often come across killers who combined the two. It didn’t make sense. Nick leaned back in his chair, his lopsided grin suggesting that he was amused by her frustration.

‘That’s where you’re going wrong,’ he told her. ‘You can’t seriously expect any of this to make sense. Remember you’re dealing with a psycho. He’s insane. You’re never going to figure out what a nut job is thinking.’

‘We have to try,’

‘That’s the job of the profilers. It’s nothing more than stating the obvious. Think about it. The profiler tells you to look for some poor misunderstood damaged bloke with an uncontrollable desire to commit a crime, we do the donkey work to find the bastard and surprise, surprise, he turns out to be someone with criminal tendencies, an uncontrollable desire to commit a crime, and all the rest of it, at which point the profiler creeps out of the corner where he’s been hiding behind his text books while we’ve been out finding the bastard, and says “I told you so”.’

Nick shook his head, dismissing her determination as a waste of time, but Geraldine was adamant. She had been through this same debate with other colleagues. No one had yet been able to shake her conviction that understanding the psyche of a killer was an essential tool in helping them to track down murderers. The trouble was that this predator was sending them mixed messages.

‘Don’t worry,’ Nick reassured her. ‘He’ll make a mistake sooner or later.’

Geraldine nodded miserably. She hoped he was right, and that they would find whoever had murdered Henshaw, Corless and old Maurice Bradshaw before the killer found another victim. They were three deaths in, and the only clues they had stumbled on so far had led them up blind alleys.

A
s though she had been waiting for him to leave, Sam entered the office shortly after Nick went out.

‘So who is he?’

‘What?’

Geraldine glanced up from her screen, frowning.

‘Maurice Bradshaw. What do we know about him?’ Sam repeated, a hint of impatience in her voice.

Geraldine turned to face the sergeant who had perched on the edge of Nick’s chair and was leaning forward, her hands palm down on her knees, staring intently at Geraldine. An enthusiastic sergeant was more useful than any online information. Geraldine had read all the reports anyway, several times over. She could have recited chunks of the witness statements by heart but knowing the information so well was pointless if they didn’t have the right information. She focused her attention on Sam.

‘We know who he is. The answer’s in the question. His name’s Maurice Bradshaw.’

‘Yes, but who
is
he? I mean, we know how Henshaw and Corless are connected. Obviously someone wanted them both out of the way, as an act of revenge or to get their hands on the restaurant, or something. That much makes some sort of sense.’

‘If you say so.’

Geraldine sighed. She wasn’t sure any of it made any sense, even if it turned out to be true that the first two murders had been committed for the sake of a business, however successful it was. The killer must have known the two restaurant owners and she was confident they would uncover the motive in time, but Bradshaw was a conundrum. He seemed to have been such an innocuous little man, leading such an inoffensive life. Geraldine wondered if there was anything that could link him to the other two victims, and hence to the killer. Speculation was futile. She needed to find out more about the third victim.

She set Sam the lengthy task of trawling through the statements again to look for inconsistencies, anything that didn’t ring true. Geraldine had already been through the whole lot, but a fresh pair of eyes might spot something she had missed. Geraldine drove to Archway and stood for a moment gazing at the dingy block of flats where Bradshaw had lived. She waited outside the depressing building but no one went in or out so, after a brief hesitation, she got back in her car and headed for the nearest station, thinking. According to the pathologist, Bradshaw had been drinking beer within an hour or two of his death, but there was none in the flat, and no empty beer bottles or cans in the crammed rubbish bin which hadn’t been emptied since his death. Unless someone else had been round and taken the empty bottles or cans away at the time, which seemed unlikely, Bradshaw had not been drinking at home on the night he was murdered. Geraldine wondered where he had been and if he had been drinking alone.

Dudley Court was a few yards along from the junction with Dartmouth Park Road. Bradshaw couldn’t have walked far with his arthritic limbs and bent spine so, seeing a bus along the main road, Geraldine followed its route on a hunch. After a while she executed a U-turn and retraced the bus route in the opposite direction. Two miles past the entrance to Bradshaw’s side turning she saw a bus stop right outside a pub. She pulled over straight away and parked. It was growing late and the silence was oppressive as she crossed the pavement. As if from nowhere, a gang of youths appeared on a nearby street corner, and stood watching her as she approached the pub. Automatically, she quickened her pace.

The interior of the pub was shabby. Rings glistened on unwiped tables and dust gathered at the foot of the skirting boards as though someone had gone through the motions of sweeping the floor, careless of the outcome. In spite of the uninviting atmosphere, it was surprisingly busy for a weekday evening. Most of the tables were occupied and a few men lounged at the bar. Geraldine showed a photograph of Bradshaw’s face to the landlord who shook his head.

‘Can’t say I recognise him but that’s not to say he’s never been in. We get all sorts and it gets mobbed, especially when the football’s on.’

He sighed, as though customers were an unwelcome imposition.

‘Please check again,’ Geraldine said. ‘I need to know if this man was in here yesterday evening.’

‘Sorry, love, I can’t help you there. Wednesday was my evening off.’

He turned away and called out.

‘Who was behind the bar last night?’

‘Angela.’

The landlord half turned and nodded at a short plump barmaid leaning on the bar, chatting with a customer. Angela scrutinised the picture carefully.

‘Do you know, I’m not sure,’ she said at last. ‘Was he in here yesterday? That’s a jolly good question.’

She paused. Geraldine waited.

‘Yesterday, you say?’

’Yes, yesterday evening.’

‘Yesterday evening?’ Angela echoed.

Geraldine hid her impatience.

‘That old codger’s here all the time,’ another barmaid announced, glancing over Angela’s shoulder.

‘I know that,’ Angela conceded. ‘But was he here last night? That’s what they want to know.’

‘Last night?’

The other barmaid looked up at Geraldine, suddenly suspicious.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘She does. She’s police.’

‘Flipping heck.’

‘Was this gentleman in here last night?’ Geraldine asked. ‘We need to track his movements, find out who he was drinking with.’

‘Oh, that’s easy enough,’ the second barmaid said. ‘He always drinks alone, that one.’

‘Was he in here last night?’

The plump barmaid shrugged and turned away, losing interest.

‘Last night? He could have been.’

The barmaids’ answers were inconclusive, but at least Geraldine had established where Bradshaw habitually drank. It was frustrating that no one could say for sure if they had seen him there the previous evening but it was a fair bet he had been in the bar on the night he was killed, drinking on his own if the barmaids’ information was accurate. As she drove home, Geraldine thought about the old man, hunched and misshapen, eking out a solitary existence, travelling two stops on the bus from his lodging to a bar where they took his money without registering his presence, before he caught the bus back to his empty flat. At least his dog had noticed his absence.

M
ore statements had been taken from employees of companies that came into contact with Mireille: food suppliers, employment agencies, laundrettes, even refuse collectors, but no one was able to give any indication as to who might have wanted the two proprietors dead. The detective chief inspector briefly considered making enquiries into rival restaurants, but although criminal action to sabotage Mireille’s menu was perhaps credible, a double murder seemed too far-fetched, even without the complication of Bradshaw who had nothing to do with the restaurant, as far as they knew.