The Evil Beneath (16 page)

‘I hadn’t realised how many people would be involved in something like this.’

‘It’s a massive operation, we’ve got about eight-hundred officers and staff on the case - and we’ve got this much.’ He made a circle with his thumb and finger.

He plumped up a cushion and sank further down into my chair. Then he patted the space beside him.

‘Listen, about before. It’s not that I’m…not interested…’ he said.

‘It’s okay. No need to explain.’

‘The timing isn’t right, that’s all - you’re tipsy and scared and right now, I fit the bill as your knight in shining armour. Just because I’m here…’

‘It’s fine. I got a bit overwhelmed. Brought my usual tough-cookie guard down for a few seconds, that’s all.’

‘Is that how you see yourself?’

‘Look at that. Hard as steel.’ I flexed my bicep and laughed.

He leant over and squeezed my arm in a let’s-be-mates kind of way.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said. I didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually we had coffee, I put some music on, we talked some more and by then it was getting very late.

The next thing I knew, there was a beam of light from the window trying to scorch a hole in my face. It was morning. I ran my tongue around sticky teeth and made several attempts to sit upright. I was on the sofa - and I wasn’t alone.

Brad was curled up next to me. His mouth had dropped open and each breath caught at the back of his throat with a tiny tick. I had pins and needles in my arm and a hangover so fierce my head must have spent the night inside an industrial strength can-crusher, but I didn’t care. I’d slept. For once, I felt like I’d actually had some sleep.

I tried to recall the way the evening had ending. I’d made us a hot drink, we’d had a Bailey’s, we’d listened to music, he’d looked at his watch and said he’d have to go any minute - and then…nothing…it went blank after that. In the end I’d got exactly what I’d wanted. Not passion into the small hours, not earth-shattering sex, but the warmth of another body, another soul, who was almost as angry and frustrated as I was.

His eyelids fluttered and he moaned.

‘What time is it?’ he said.

I told him. He swore and grabbed his jacket.

‘It’s Sunday,’ I reminded him.

‘The case doesn’t close, I’m afraid.’

At the door, he pressed a mobile phone into my hand.

‘Police property, look after it.’

‘No tap on this one?’ I said.

He touched the side of his nose. ‘Spot on, Doctor Watson.’

Then he was gone.

Jackie was loitering in the hall with a coy smile on her face when I went to check if there was any mail.

‘New man?’ she said.

‘Er…no, not really.’

‘Not over that other guy yet?’

I wanted to tell her it was none of her business, but unfortunately I’d gone and made most of it her business during the last few weeks.

‘Is there anything more about him? After the police discovered his GBH record?’

‘They haven’t arrested him, if that’s what you mean.’

She grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me inside her flat, insisting on making me a cup of tea. I shouldn’t have done, but I filled her in on the latest about the murders. In spite of her wary approach at the beginning, the whole business had piqued her interest and she wanted to know every detail. Tragedy is exciting when it is happening to someone else. Although I knew her reasons were morbid, I was glad to have her on hand as a make-shift confidante. At least she asked sensible questions and didn’t look the type to go gossiping about it as soon as I’d gone.

‘Apparently, Andrew was playing at a local golf club and someone ran a buggy over his foot,’ I explained. ‘He’d been drinking. He lashed out at the driver and broke his nose, his wrist and three ribs. The guy also had lasting kidney damage. Andrew was inside for a year, but I haven’t asked him about it. It was eight years ago, long before I met him. I’m not supposed to know and it’s hardly something he’s going to let slip, is it?’

‘Do you think he’s…involved with these killings?’

‘No way. I just can’t see it. What does he know about the tides?’

Jackie was staring into the fireplace. Tony must work all hours of the day and night. Since the incident with the burglar, I’d never seen any sign of him.

‘But what about those nasty paintings you found and all the personal links to you that Andrew would know about?’ she said.

‘I can’t see how Andrew would know the Richmond Bridge was widened in 1939. He doesn’t even know what day his bins get collected. Besides,
he
was the one pushing me to call the police after the text messages.’

‘Have they checked his alibis?’

‘I don’t know.’ I was sure he’d be hot under the collar about the way the police were treating him. Raking over a past that might be murkier than it seemed.

‘You should stay away from him.’

‘I intend to, but if he wants to find me, it wouldn’t be difficult.’

‘Hard for anyone to try anything with Lara Croft and her gang on your tail.’ She tipped her head towards the window.

‘You noticed,’ I said.

When I went back up to my flat, I thought again about my embarrassing encounter with Brad. It was all wrong. I was a gibbering wreck and I’d probably lost all my sense of judgement. Besides, I didn’t have the energy for a relationship. No - it was a stupid mistake.

My thoughts drifted back to Andrew. Was it wishful thinking that he wasn’t involved? How well did I really know him? A wave of nausea swept through my stomach as I reached to close the curtains, staring out into the shroud of darkness closing over the city. The charge of GBH had certainly been a shock, but how much more was lurking under the surface, yet to be discovered?

Chapter Seventeen

The police station was a hive of activity when I turned up the following afternoon. Brad had left a message to say he wanted us to meet - check if there was anything we were missing.

I sat in the reception area, trying not to get in anyone’s way, as men carrying diving equipment and two dog handlers with German shepherds came into the building. Operation Chicane must have been severely stretching resources. A door opened and I saw Brad’s hand waving me through.

‘Had the divers down again,’ he said, ‘by London Bridge.’ A shot of adrenaline flew up my chest.

‘False alarm,’ he said. ‘Thank goodness.’

The incident room had so many desks it was difficult to find floor space to weave our way through. We approached a white board at the end with three photographs at the top. Written underneath in black pen, were the names of the three victims, together with their dates of birth. Lines radiating out from the pictures reached other words: the names of the bridges and the times and dates when the bodies were found.

Then I came across the list of objects found on the bodies and saw my own name, up there with the rest. I felt my knees go to jelly and stumbled. I pretended I’d nearly tripped over a box of envelopes, but Brad wasn’t taken in. He was standing behind me and knew I couldn’t take my eyes away from the board. I felt a subtle nudge in my back that was either an expression of concern or a shove to keep me moving.

We reached his office and he shut the door behind me.

‘I thought it would be helpful to get our heads together,’ said Brad. ‘I could do with some fresh input.’

‘I wanted to apologise again,’ I said, looking away, ‘for last night.’

‘Me too.’ I wasn’t sure what he meant. Sorry it had happened? Sorry about the way he reacted? I wanted to ask more, but he pulled out a batch of files and cleared his throat to indicate the matter was closed.

He offered me a seat and was talking before I sat down.

‘Studies show that a high percentage of serial killers live within an “offence circle”,’ he said. ‘That is, their home is at the centre of the attacks. But, the area’s too wide - Richmond, Hammersmith and Battersea.’

‘Only about half of south London,’ I said.

He sat back and looked like he was waiting for me to be the one doing the enlightening, not the other way around.

Silence. ‘Anything more from a profiling point of view?’ he said, eventually.

I glanced at my notes, switched into professional-speak. ‘There seems to be no violence in the three cases, other than strangulation, which was quick and precise.’

Brad rocked in his chair, mulling it over. ‘The killer wants the women dead, he doesn’t want to torture them,’ he concluded.

‘Yeah. It would seem that the killer gets no pleasure in taunting the victim through aggression or pain. There are no defence wounds, no tissue under the finger nails - and I understand the river wouldn’t necessarily wash away material if it was trapped.’

He nodded. ‘If the murders were so straightforward, perhaps the killer wasn’t new to strangulation,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe, he’d had practice in another context.’

‘Like someone who works in an abattoir, perhaps? Or a game-keeper, a farmer, a poacher?’

‘Someone who knows how to kill an animal and has no qualms about moving up the evolutionary chain?’

‘Or even someone used to working with dead bodies? A mortuary assistant? A pathologist?’ I suggested. ‘And because there’s no apparent sadism and he doesn’t appear to enjoy the killing itself, it suggests it could be for a higher purpose, such as retribution, revenge, making a point. I get the strong feeling it’s not
personal
- not about the individual victims themselves.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘But it’s personal about
you
,’ he said.

‘Yes, but, the victims themselves are incidental. I think it’s more about what they represent. In this case, the abortions are a likely motive. Apart from the link to Fairways Clinic, the only other thing I can see those women had in common was a small frame.’

He read his notes. ‘Pamela, the American, weighed under eight stone. Aysha Turner was five foot and underweight. Lindsey was four foot eleven.’

As he spoke, I remembered seeing Aysha’s body on the trolley at the mortuary. She’d looked like a doll. I remembered the photos on the incident board - Pamela and Lindsey, in spite of their womanly curves, were both tiny. Suddenly, there was a nasty taste in my mouth. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that I was the same build - Pamela had been wearing my clothes, after all.

‘The point being,’ he said, ‘that the women could be easily lifted and carried.’

There was a sharp rap on the door and a young WPC came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She laid it in the middle of Brad’s desk and asked if there was anything else we wanted.

It seemed wrong to be indulging ourselves; drooling over chocolate-chip cookies while discussing the final horrible moments of people’s lives. I saw Brad consider taking one, but I think he must have come to the same conclusion I did.

‘What about the connections with the river?’ he asked. ‘Anything there?’

‘He seems to know the river well,’ I said. ‘He could have had access to tide tables - perhaps works in that field. I agree that he made sure they stayed in one place in the water. He wanted them to be found at those exact points by the bridges.’

‘It’s very specific…’ He was rattling a pencil between his teeth.

‘The bridges have some significance for him. I’m sure of it.’

He was sitting forward looking like he was poised for the good news. I didn’t want to tell him there wasn’t any.

‘And because there’s no sexual angle, you reckon he’s sexually competent, perhaps married or with a partner?’ he mused.

‘Possibly your average family man with kids,’ I said, with distaste.

‘You’re right - there is often an everyday ordinariness about serial killers; they don’t always stick out like a sore thumb.’ He turned to his notes. ‘There was a spate of railway murders in Bradford in the mid-eighties.’ He grimaced. ‘One of the two killers, John Weston, was married with three children.’

I shuddered. I tried to imagine being the wife of someone like that; bringing up three kids together and never knowing that your husband was capable of such despicable acts. You share a pizza, bath the kids and then he pops out with his mate and strangles someone.

He looked at his watch and I knew there was nothing else.

‘We’re on the look-out for someone who claims to want to help,’ he said, as he walked me back to the main entrance. ‘The SIO thinks, like you, that these crimes have all the hallmarks of someone who needs to be appreciated, someone who wants to know first-hand how the case is going, who wants to revel in the ingenuity of his crimes.’

He turned to me and looked like he was going to scoop my hands in his, but changed his mind. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be back,’ I said, without relish.

I left him to his next meeting and made my way home.

Nothing happened for the next two weeks and it was a welcome reprieve. I wondered if maybe it was all over. Perhaps the killer had finished what he had set out to do; perhaps he’d had a car accident and was lying immobile in intensive care or had fled to the south of France. I didn’t care, I was just glad to walk out of the flat without that heavy feeling of dread about what might happen that day. I’d even started to switch on the evening news without getting a lump in my throat every time. I’d stopped looking out for an unmarked police car. I wasn’t sure if anyone was still tailing me or not.

Brad kept me up to date with the case, but there wasn’t a lot to report. No DNA had come to light. A few fibres had been isolated, but nothing to match them with. He hadn’t turned up at my door and we hadn’t been on another date. I put it down to him being too busy, but maybe I was kidding myself.

I returned to Fairways and carried on with clients at home although Brad suggested it would be wise not to take on any new people for the time being. None of us wanted any more nasty surprises. No weird messages had turned up on my phone or email. Things felt like they were almost getting back to normal.

Brad rang one night as I was getting ready for bed.

‘Sorry, I haven’t been in touch, lately,’ he said.

‘It’s okay. It’s good in a way, means nothing awful has happened.’

‘We’re still in the thick of it.’

‘Anything useful? Any suspects?’

‘We’ve got an ID on the man who was aggressive towards you at the demonstration.’

‘And?’

‘His name is Reginald McGuire. Ring any bells?’

I thought for a moment. ‘No. Why would he have been at Andrew’s presentation?’

‘Perhaps they knew each other. We haven’t found the guy yet.’

‘Andrew said he didn’t know him…but…’ I tried to recall Andrew’s response when I’d asked him if he knew the man. He’d sounded sincere in his denial, but there’d been so much going on, I hadn’t been scrutinising his face. His lies had fooled me before.

‘Anything else?’

‘There’s Andrew.’ His voice sounded grave and I didn’t know if I wanted to hear what he had to say next. ‘We’ve questioned him. He doesn’t have strong alibis. He doesn’t own a car, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have borrowed or hired one.’

‘What will you do?’

‘There’s no DNA. We’ve checked his flat and there are no fibres that match the ones we found.’

‘Good.’

‘We’ve started a painstaking examination of the victims’ hair. Lots of debris from the river was caught up in their hair, of course, but someone had to get pretty close to strangle them. Maybe, just maybe, they left behind a tiny piece of evidence. We’re going through every microscopic fibre. If there’s a match to Andrew Wishbourne’s clothes, or anything at his flat - we’ll have him.’

I stared at the phone as if it had just bitten me. ‘Do you really think it’s him?’

‘It’s got to be somebody. Like we said before, the perpetrator could be an ordinary, everyday guy.’

I thought back to the morning I’d rung Andrew from Hammersmith Bridge and dragged him out of bed. He’d seemed genuinely shocked by what had happened. He didn’t seem to be play-acting. I would have known. I know I would.

‘I don’t think it’s him. It can’t be. He doesn’t know anything about bridges or the tides…’

I got into bed and wrapped the duvet around me with my free hand. I didn’t want to discuss it anymore. I just wanted to go to sleep. For a long time.

‘You didn’t know he played golf…or had been inside for a year…’

‘It’s not him. I know it isn’t.’ I couldn’t talk to him anymore. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ I said, disconnecting the line before he could utter another word. I switched off the volume altogether. I didn’t want to talk to anyone any more. I’d had enough.

* * *

All my sensible brain cells were telling me it was a bad idea, but the following evening I had to go back to Notting Hill.

Andrew’s lights were on and as I got closer, I was desperately trying to work out what I was going to say. He opened the door with a tea-towel in his hand.

‘This is unexpected,’ he said, ‘and rather late.’

He turned away, but left the door open.

The Killers
were playing. The irony of it didn’t pass me by. I hoped he didn’t have company.

‘Is this a social call?’ he said.

‘I’ve been speaking to the police,’ I said.

‘Are you a suspect, too?’ he snorted.

Andrew moved a pile of books from the sofa and I sat down. I looked around for a half-filled glass or bottle of whisky, but I couldn’t see one.

‘Coffee?’ he said.

When he left the room, I stayed where I was, tempting as it was to look again for more mysterious pictures like I’d discovered last time. He handed me a mug and put his own on the floor. He caught me staring at the pot of coffee. ‘I’m on the wagon,’ he said.

‘How long?’

‘Couple of weeks. Actually, thirteen days and…’ he glanced up at the clock on the wall, ‘six hours.’

‘That’s really good.’ I felt genuinely heartened. At least I knew which Andrew I would be conversing with tonight.

‘The police gave me a grilling about the three deaths under the bridges.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t have watertight alibis, as far as they’re concerned.’ I was tempted to ask him exactly what his alibis consisted of, but that would have made me sound suspicious, too. ‘What do I know about how fast the Thames flows?’

‘Is that what they asked you?’

‘I said I’d painted the river. They wanted to see the pictures. They searched my flat. Bloody nerve. Raking over my past like I’m some piece of rotting meat.’ He got up and pulled out a stack of canvases. ‘I don’t think you’ve seen these,’ he said.

I hoped my cheeks didn’t give me away.

‘Are they the ones you said weren’t for sale?’

‘Yeah. They weren’t finished.’

He turned the first one round. I recognised the background as being one of the dark, unsettling paintings I’d found with disturbing titles. But there was something different about it, now. Andrew had added detail at the front; reeds and trees and the light had been changed. He’d lifted the colours at the back and added a sunrise. There was a water-vole tucked behind a log. It was an entirely new picture. Nothing sinister about it at all.

‘It’s…lovely,’ I said. ‘It’s very different from your usual style.’

‘Grant, you know, my mate at the gallery, said there might be some scenic work going in the West End. They’re doing Wind in the Willows. I wanted to see what I could do.’

‘Did you give it a title?’ I asked, knowing the title I’d seen had nothing remotely pastoral about it.

He flipped it over. ‘I originally called it “Stranger on the riverbed”,’ he said, ‘but now it’s “All along the Backwater”.’ He laughed. ‘I hate compromising my style, but I need the work, Jules.’

‘The original title is a bit gruesome,’ I said, tentatively.

‘I was drunk when I did the first version. I was feeling pretty shitty after we’d broken up.’ He stared at the coffee in his mug. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a tad on the suicidal side.’

‘Oh, God,’ I said.