The Handshaker (27 page)

With a rueful smile, it occurred to Croft that Mrs Hitchins knew a damn sight more about him than would be good for his reputation if she ever decided to sell out to the tabloids. His outburst at Shannon had dissipated most of his anger and he smiled again at his daily. “Call Steven Flint at this time of day? I don’t think so. Millie, whatever you have to say to me you can say in front of Mrs Hitchins.”

“Mr Croft, you must trust me,” she insisted. “I urgently need to speak to you, and in private. If you refuse, you’ll leave me no choice but to arrest you and take you to the station.”

Mrs Hitchins made a comment, but Croft did not hear it. He was too shocked.

“Arrest me? On what charge?”

“No charge, but the suspicion of murder.” Millie was all but begging. “Now will you please let me speak to you in private?”

Again there was a babble of voices. Locked in silent, eye-to-eye combat with Millie, Croft waited for it to die down, then spoke to his daily.

“Leave us for a few moments, will you, Mrs H? If I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’ll call you back in as a witness and we’ll get Steven out of bed.”

“Mr Croft, sir, don’t do it,” urged his daily. “One word out of place and they’ll have you for the Great Train Robbery.”

“Please, Mrs Hitchins. Just go into the lounge and let me speak to them in private. Just for a minute or two.”

His charming smile persuaded her. With a huffy sigh of resentment, the housekeeper left the room.

With them gone, Millie sat opposite, placed an evidence bag on the table and stared Croft in the eye. “The reason I wanted your cleaner out of the room, sir, is because what we have to talk about is quite delicate, and it may be entirely innocent, so I didn’t want to put your, er, relationship with Ms Sinclair on the line if Mrs Hitchins decided to talk.” She indicated the evidence bag and its contents. “I think this pen is yours, and it has already been dusted for prints. We’ll know before lunchtime whether yours are on it. I found it under a bed in a prostitute’s bedroom. She had been murdered. Now I’d like you to tell me how well you knew Joyce Dunn.”

35

“After I graduated, riding on the back of my father’s reputation, I spent a little time teaching, then got into hypnotherapy. I quickly made a name for myself in industry. It’s the one thing that makes me grateful for being the son of a High Court Judge, although I don’t think the old man would like to hear that I played on his contacts. My specialist field was motivation, as you can probably guess, and I’m an expert on the power of suggestion. I know how to string phrases together so that they suggest rather than inform. For that reason I was often involved in high-level discussions with the directors of companies ripe for takeover. I travelled the world for those meetings, but occasionally, they would take place right here, in Greater Manchester.”

Croft paused a moment, concentrating his stare on the foul weather through the window, composing his thoughts.

“Whether you know it or not, whether you
like
it or not, one of the ways to make the, er, opposition more amenable, more open to persuasion, is to get them laid. It’s a common practice. No matter where we were in the world, we had prostitutes on call when we were in negotiations, and in the Manchester area, Joyce Dunn was one of them.”

Their faces were blank. They did not believe him.

After allowing a long silence for Croft to either add to or subtract from his explanation, Shannon asked the obvious question. “Did you use Joyce’s services personally?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Croft wondered why he was so defensive. The question was not germane to the issue and Shannon had no business asking it.

“And you expect us to believe that?” the superintendent pressed.

This time Croft was not so generous. “It’s the truth. Whether you believe it is up to you.”

“Well I don’t,” Shannon declared. “I’m a sudden convert to Occam’s Razor which says the simplest explanation is the most likely. I think you knew Joyce because you were a john.”

Croft used the edge of the table as an anchor in reality, gripping it firmly with his left hand. He took a deep breath. “Occam’s Razor actually says that in any theory, entities should not be multiplied without foundation. In other words, don’t dream up wild theories without sufficient evidence. I gave you the truth. If you’re too dumb to recognise it, don’t try simplifying it to make it fit your own twisted ideas. I repeat, I have never been one of Joyce Dunn’s clients. I knew her purely because of my business activities.”

“So you’ve never paid for the services of a prostitute?”

Once again, Croft was determined not to give the superintendent any leeway. “That is none of your business, Shannon. Stick to the point.”

Millie hovered on the edge of the tête-à-tête, trying to put her own questions to Croft, but Shannon maintained his belligerent control.

“It is the point considering we’re looking for the most likely suspect to shuffle your girlfriend off her mortal coil. I might also remind you that we’re seeking a sex killer, and that you knew two of the victims; Sandra Lumb and Joyce Dunn. Did you know any of the others?”

Croft shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

This time Millie managed to interject. “Isn’t that bit vague?”

“Not really,” said Croft. “Over the last decade I have worked with hundreds of students, and if we go back further, I have lectured to thousands of people on the subject of hypnosis and self-motivation. I ran recreational classes at UMIST before taking up my post with the University of North West England, and even now, I run occasional classes in hypnosis practice in hotels for those people seeking to learn how it’s done, how to use it for their own benefit. I cannot remember everyone I’ve ever spoken to in these groups, and for all I know some of the victims may have attended my classes sometime in the past. I don’t know.”

Shannon stood. “In that case, Mr Croft, I suggest we look through your records.”

Croft was aghast. “What? All of them? It would take years. Assuming you haven’t done so already, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to check into the victims’ backgrounds, or ask their families?”

“We did and we turned up nothing in common,” Millie admitted, much to the annoyance of Shannon. “However, that’s not to say we’ve looked at
every
aspect of their lives, and we certainly never imagined they may have attended a short course in hypnosis run by you.”

Croft shook his head sadly. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this, but I will tell you something. Each and every one of those women was hypnotised at some time in the past.”

“How do you know?” Shannon challenged.

“Because I don’t believe in Franz Walter’s Deep Secret; instantaneous induction or genetic disposition to instant somnambulism,” Croft declared leaving Shannon without a clue of his meaning. “I do accept that about five percent of the population are susceptible to rapid induction, but not instantaneous, which means that the only way The Handshaker can induce a deep state quickly enough to get them into a car without a struggle is to have implanted a post-hypnotic suggestion to that effect, and in order to have done that he must have hypnotised them in the past.
That
is what you should be looking at, Shannon. Not running on some wild goose chase looking for evidence that I’m The Handshaker. You want to check my records, go ahead. In the meantime, make sure you leave someone, preferably someone with more brains than you, looking for this maniac, and may I remind you, while we’re on the subject, that this same maniac has my girlfriend, and I’ll bet you still haven’t checked with Evelyn Kearns.”

“Evelyn who?” asked the superintendent.

“Trish’s counsellor,” Croft explained. “I’ve made Inspector Matthews aware of the situation.”

Shannon got to his feet, his features vermilion with suppressed rage, directed mainly at Millie. It amused Croft to watch the superintendent struggle to keep his temper as he addressed his immediate subordinate.

“Inspector Matthews, I want this man arrested.”

“I think we’re jumping the gun, sir,” Millie insisted.

“You found his pen under Joyce Dunn’s bed,” Shannon reminded her. “Along with the other evidence, it’s enough for me.”

“What other evidence?” asked Croft, but he was ignored.

“Sir,” Millie persevered, “we don’t even know that it is Mr Croft’s pen.”

“If you let me see it,” Croft suggested, “I may be able to tell you.”

They turned suspicious eyes on him. “You think it may be?”

Croft shrugged. “I have pens like that. A set that was bought for me. I think there were about five or six ball points with different nibs, a couple of fountain pens with interchangeable nibs, and a propelling pencil. Trish bought it for me years ago, but...” he sighed, “I’m always losing bits and pieces.”

Millie pushed the bag across the table. Croft picked it up and examined it closely. Putting it down, he shrugged once more. “Hard to say. It looks like one of mine, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Let’s assume,” suggested Shannon, “that it is yours. How did it end up under Joyce Dunn’s bed?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Well I have,” declared the superintendent. “Sergeant Fletcher, get onto the SOCOs in Allington Woods. We have Bob Grindley and Rehana Begum standing on the visitor car park to keep the press and ghouls at bay. Tell them to send Begum up here to keep an eye on the daily.”

Croft was concerned. “You’re frightened The Handshaker may come back for her?”

“No,” the superintendent countered. “I just want to make sure that while you’re with us, the old bat isn’t shifting evidence out of the house.”

Croft half stood. “What? You can’t do that. You can’t stop her coming and going.”

“That’s right, but I can make sure she doesn’t shift old anoraks or typewriters while I get a warrant to search this place.” Shannon shrugged his coat about his shoulders, ready to leave.

“And where will I be?” Croft demanded.

“At the station,” the superintendent assured him. “Felix Croft, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction, rape and murder.”

36

With the decision to arrest Croft made, Fletcher departed to join the SOCOs in Allington Woods and there was a ten-minute delay while they waited for Rehana Begum to arrive.

After giving the young constable orders to stand sentry on the house and monitor Mrs Hitchins’ comings and goings, Millie and Shannon watched Millie’s saloon pass through the gates with Thurrock at the wheel, carrying Croft in the back, then at last, they climbed into Shannon’s VW Passat for the journey to Scarbeck.

“Ernie, what the hell is going on?” Millie demanded, drawing the seatbelt across her midriff and clipping it into place. “You’ve hauled him in on the thinnest evidence.”

Settling behind the wheel, Shannon gunned the engine. “Have I?” He slipped the transmission into ‘Drive’ and let the brake off. “You’ve forgotten our earlier conversation?”

“The switch of typewriter? No Handshaker prints or DNA? No, I haven’t forgotten, but they prove nothing. You haven’t tested Croft’s Remington typewriter yet – if it was a Remington used to produce the note – so you have no evidence, only suspicions, and if you’re wrong –”

“I’m not wrong. The pen you found was all I needed.” Shannon paused at the junction with Huddersfield Road, checked right and pulled out into light, mid-morning traffic. “Come on, Millie, you suspected him yourself.”

“No I didn’t,” she argued. “I thought the pen might be his, so I winged it. I didn’t ask whether or not he knew Joyce, just
how
he knew her. He could have said he’d never heard of her and that would have been the end of it. His explanation sounded reasonable to me. We all know these big business junkets use tarts for entertainment.”

“Balls,” Shannon snorted. “Just because I’ve lost most of my hair doesn’t mean I’ve handed my brain in.”

Millie sneered. “Next you’ll be telling me he’s The Handshaker.”

The superintendent let out a chuckle. “I wish. I think he’s used The Handshaker killings as a smokescreen to cover bumping off his girlfriend.”

Millie stared out at stone built cottages as they came to the extreme outskirts of Scarbeck. The kind of place she always fancied owning. If only she had the right man to share it with.

She brought her attention back to Shannon’s last statement. “We don’t know that Sinclair is dead.”

“We don’t know that she isn’t, either.” Shannon eased off for a pelican crossing on red. As the flashing amber appeared, he accelerated away again. “For God’s sake, Millie, we can’t even find her car.”

Millie let the window down an inch and lit a cigarette. Up ahead, traffic was slowing down on the approach to the roadworks at Pearman’s.

“And where does Victoria Reid fit into all this?” she demanded, “Don’t tell me he heisted her, Ernie, because I know he didn’t. He was with me when The Handshaker took her.”

Shannon pulled up behind a pickup truck. Half a mile in front, he could see Thurrock’s car fighting its way into the offside lane.