Strange Blood (26 page)

‘Course I won't. I should think it'll be a ghost town, anyway. Who's going to want to go shopping there after what's happened?'

‘You'd be surprised,' Megan sighed. ‘Some people are very ghoulish.'

*   *   *

Steve Foy glared at his sergeant. ‘So where are these other witnesses then?' He tossed the girl's statement onto the table. ‘His bloody mother's obviously put her up to this!'

Todd held Foy's gaze. There was a tell-tale trace of whisky in the peppermint blast of his boss's breath. ‘We've contacted two so far,' he replied. ‘Both of them back up the girl's story.'

Foy grunted. ‘What a surprise! It a bloody witches' coven man! Ma Raven's got them all in her power!'

Todd cleared his throat. ‘With respect, Guv, I don't think that'd stand up in court.'

Foy brought his fist down on the table. ‘Bail the bastard, then!' His too-bright eyes narrowed to glittering slits. ‘But you tell him I haven't finished with him yet!'

*   *   *

No stars out tonight. Not long to wait now, though. Soon be away from this shithole. Ride for miles, then; free as the air.

There was a time when it seemed an impossible dream. What Mum had made was an invisible prison cell.

‘I want you to look like Dorothy.' Her voice whispered down the years. She had said it often. While buying party dresses in Beatties' children's department. While coaxing hair into sausage-roll ringlets with rags that itched in the night. And while choosing the shoes a boy was never meant to wear.

Yes. Freedom came at a price.

Chapter 19

Getting into Whiteladies proved almost as difficult as gaining entry to the maximum security prisons in which Megan had done so much of her research. The only way to bypass the reams of red tape it required was to get police authorisation.

It was pointless asking Steve Foy, who still seemed hellbent on pursuing his occult theory. According to Dave Todd, the re-arrest of Justin Preece had come about on the premise that he was registered at the surgery in Pendleton,
ergo
he knew Susan Thompson. ‘As did the three thousand-odd other patients on the books,' Dave had said when he told her.

He had phoned last night to tell her that Justin had been bailed. After hearing her idea about Whiteladies he had contacted the governor himself. He'd got permission for the two of them to visit at nine o'clock the following morning. How he had managed it without Foy being informed Megan didn't like to ask. What mattered now was getting the names of those day-release inmates as quickly as possible.

*   *   *

Ceri was getting ready for the confrontation with Neil. She had dropped the children off and had run herself a bath. She needed a small oasis of calm in which to think. To plan what she was going to say when he got home.

She knew he couldn't have seen the piece in the newspaper. He had phoned her each night while he was away and it had been a real struggle, trying to pretend everything was normal. He knew she'd been to the cottage at Borth but she'd lied about the reason for her sudden trip to Wales, saying her lectures had been cancelled because of the police investigation at Pendleton. That had worried him. He had begged her to be careful when she got back, which made her feel even more guilty about what she was about to do.

*   *   *

Mark Westerman could have been Dave Todd's father, Megan reflected as she shook the governor's hand. Same build, same accent, same gold-rimmed glasses. The only striking difference was that Westerman's hair was completely white.

‘What we need to know,' Megan said, taking the proffered cup of coffee, ‘is whether any of your inmates are on day-release placements in the Pendleton area of Wolverhampton.'

The inner third of Westerman's bushy, silver-flecked eyebrows slid upwards like two exotic caterpillars sensing food. ‘Can I just clarify one thing?' he said. ‘We don't have sex offenders or anyone with a history of violent behaviour at Whiteladies.'

‘I know that none of the inmates here has a
record
of that type of offending,' Megan said. ‘The sort of man I have in mind could be someone who's slipped through the net. Someone who's been convicted of a lesser offence but has a violent past that's never been detected.'

‘Well I really don't think…'

‘Are you familiar with the Clive Birkinshaw case?' Megan cut him short.

The caterpillars jumped. He looked straight at her but said nothing.

‘The rapist who attacked a woman while on day-release from Sudbury?' She had done her homework. ‘He was working for a local electrical firm and managed to a rape a fellow employee because nobody supervised him during the lunch hour.'

He nodded, a wary look in his eyes.

‘I'm sure the governor of Sudbury would have said the same thing as you about his inmates before that blew up in his face.' Megan's gaze was unwavering as she waited for a response.

‘I can assure you the men allowed out on day-release are very carefully vetted and monitored.' Westerman glanced out of the window.

‘I don't doubt that, but the man responsible for these attacks is incredibly good at covering his tracks. We're not talking about your average villain, here, Mr. Westerman. To kill three woman in the way he has without leaving a shred of forensic evidence – that takes a pretty shrewd mind, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yes, but…'

‘The kind of mind that could just as easily con people in the prison service into sending him to a place like this,' Megan went on, ‘and once here, con anyone else who stood in his way. That's what Birkinshaw did.'

‘I spend every day of my working life with conmen, Doctor Rhys.' His voice was little more than a loud whisper but the venom in it was unmistakeable. ‘Are you suggesting I don't know my own job?'

‘I'm not suggesting anything of the kind,' she said. ‘But three women are dead. All them visited Pendleton shopping precinct shortly before they died. The man who organises the Christian outreach here at Whiteladies tells me there are inmates on day-release attending services at Pendleton. I
have
to know who those men are, Mr. Westerman, if only to rule them out.'

He let out a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. ‘All right,' he said grudgingly. ‘But I want to make it clear I'm not happy about the way this investigation is being carried out.' He turned to Dave Todd. ‘I'll be writing to your lead officer on the matter,' he said. ‘You should have gone through the proper channels. Shropshire police should have been informed, for a start. Any inmate of this prison comes under their jurisdiction, not West Midlands.'

Westerman walked across to the computer terminal on the other side of the room. ‘We only allow inmates out on day-release two days a week,' he said, his back to them as he stared at the computer screen. ‘We don't have the resources to let them out every day.'

Megan caught her breath. ‘Which days?'

‘Wednesdays and Thursdays. They have a 7pm curfew.'

Megan and Todd exchanged glances. ‘What time do they leave in the morning?' she asked.

‘Wait a minute.' Westerman sounded irritated. They waited for what seemed like ages while he clicked away at the keyboard. Finally there was a whirring noise as the printer churned out a list of names. ‘Here you are,' Westerman said, sending the piece of paper skimming across the table towards Megan so that it almost fell onto the floor.

‘Thank you,' she said, grabbing it as it brushed her elbow. There were twelve names on the list. Only three of them worked at Pendleton. Two were at the supermarket; one in the bakery and another in the warehouse. The third did food preparation at Pendleton Pantry.

‘The men on that list will have left here between eight o'clock and eight-thirty this morning, depending on their mode of transport. Some have their own cars; others travel into work on motorbikes or cycles.'

Megan's eyes widened. ‘Can you tell me which ones have cycles?'

‘Not without looking at their files.' Westerman glared at her.

‘I'd like to see your files on these three, then, please.' She underlined the names and pushed them back across the table.'

‘Of course.' His tone was icily polite. ‘If you'll just give me a moment.'

As the door closed behind him Megan and Todd turned to each other, simultaneously letting out a breath.

‘Bicycles! It's got to be one of them, hasn't it?' Todd shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘We've got to get into their cells, Dave,' Megan said. ‘Find something concrete.'

Westerman marched back into the room with a bundle of files under his arm.

‘I've brought all twelve,' he said flatly. ‘Don't want to be traipsing up and own that corridor all afternoon.' He pushed the buff-coloured folders towards Megan. She and Todd sifted through them, picking out the Pendleton men.

‘This one,' Todd said, leaning across the desk to show her. ‘It says he cycles to Pendleton.'

Megan looked at the photograph of a grim-faced man with close-cropped brown hair. She felt it was vaguely familiar but couldn't think why. Her eye travelled down the page.
Nicholas Stern. Age 37. Work Placement: Pendleton Pantry.
The man in the café. The one who had asked for Delva's autograph. Now she remembered.

Flicking through the pages of the file she learned that he had been convicted three years ago on five specimen charges of burglary. He had previous convictions for burglary and possessing heroin. He had been transferred to Whiteladies from Winson Green six months ago.

‘He's a burglar and an ex-heroin addict?' Megan could feel her heart beginning to thud.

‘Yes.' Westerman took the file from her. ‘He also has a degree in Film Studies from Birmingham University.' He looked at her as if she was something on the bottom of his shoe. ‘Nick is one of our most talented inmates. He's made several video recordings for us. We're planning to move him from the café next month – he's been offered a work placement at the Lighthouse Media Centre.'

‘This one has a bike, too,' Todd cut in.

Megan looked at the file. It was the warehouseman at the supermarket.
Edward Fitzsimmons. Age 43.
He'd been jailed for seven counts of stealing mobile phones. His previous convictions included burglary and handling stolen goods.

Megan jumped to her feet. ‘We need to check both of them out,' she said to Todd. ‘Can you organise that?' Then she turned to Westerman. ‘I want their cells stripped,' she said. ‘
Don't
under any circumstances try to contact either of them, okay?' Westerman glared at her, his eyebrows knitted. ‘I can only allow you to search inmates' cells in the presence of a prison officer,' he said.

‘Fine – if you can call one of your officers I'd like to start straight away.'

Westerman muttered something under his breath and picked up the phone.

Dave Todd was on his feet, frowning at his mobile. ‘I'll have to go outside to get a signal,' he said to Megan. ‘I'm going to head for the supermarket. I'll get another squad to go to the café.'

‘Okay,' she said. ‘I'll call you if I find anything.'

*   *   *

Ceri glanced at her watch. Neil's plane should be landing in forty minutes' time. Two hours from now he would be home. She felt a tremor run right through her body. They had been married for eight years. Eight years of her life, about to be thrown out of the window. She wondered what would have happened if she hadn't got the lecturing job; hadn't met Justin. Would she have carried on? Pretended to herself that this was a life worth living?

She slipped on the matching set of cream lace-trimmed underwear Neil had bought her last Christmas. It was pretty. Not exactly sexy. The kind of thing a good wife should wear for her husband. But she was not a good wife. And she was not intending for Neil to see it.

*   *   *

When Megan was shown inside Edward Fitzsimmons' cell she did a double take. It looked exactly like the rooms in the student halls of residence at Heartland. There was a single bed with a blue patterned duvet, a bedside locker with family photographs and an alarm clock and, under the window, a table and chair. But what really surprised her was the portable TV.

‘They're allowed televisions in their rooms?'

‘Oh, yes,' the prison officer replied. ‘And they have their own key to come and go as they please. They can go pretty much anywhere they like within the prison as long as they turn up for roll calls.'

Megan glanced at the table. There were a few library books on it. One on origami and a couple on antiques. She flicked through them. Nothing fell out. She looked through the drawers in the locker. Underwear, handkerchiefs, a couple of T-shirts and a collection of Christmas and birthday cards.

‘From his wife, kids and grandchildren,' the officer said. ‘That's them.' He nodded at the photographs on top of the locker. In the largest of them Edward Fitzsimmons was sitting on a bench surrounded by his family. There was a baby on his lap and another child – a little boy with blonde curls – was leaning his head against his shoulder.

‘Can you get someone else to strip this room?' Megan asked. ‘I'd like to see the other one.'

Nick Stern's cell was almost identical to Fitzsimmons', apart from the posters on the walls. They were all promotional material for films – the kind cinemas would have on display in their foyers. They were not mainstream films – more arthouse.
Girl With a Pearl Earring, Tin Drum
and
The Cook, The Thief, His Wife And Her Lover
were the only ones she recognised. Some bore French text and others were in German.

Alongside the portable TV was a pile of newspapers. She picked up the top one. As she moved it she caught sight of something that made her freeze. It was the local evening paper, folded open at page three, with her photograph on it. She opened the paper out. Her mouth went dry. In the top left-hand corner of page two, drawn in blue biro, was a pentagram.