The Jackal Man (9 page)

The attack on Clare Mayers was something DS Rachel Tracey felt strongly about, just as she felt strongly about all attacks
on defenceless women. During her time as a police officer she had sometimes worked with men who didn’t seem to care. Wesley’s
predecessor had been one of them and DC Steve Carstairs had been another – although Steve had redeemed himself by dying a
hero’s death, thus putting himself beyond criticism. A sly move, in Rachel’s opinion.

Rachel didn’t intend to let the search for Clare’s attacker run out of steam like some investigations tended to do. The same
went for the Neston case. The victim might not have been hurt but she’d been badly frightened. All women should have the right
to walk the streets unmolested. And who was to say that the attacker wouldn’t grow bolder over time and do serious damage
… like that done to Clare?

She wanted to talk to the Neston victim just to see if
anything had been missed. With men in charge, she suspected that the woman’s ordeal wouldn’t have been taken seriously enough
and she needed to know every tiny detail, even the things dismissed as unimportant. After making a phone call to ensure that
her journey wouldn’t be wasted, she hurried to Gerry Heffernan’s office to tell him where she was going. It was a formality
of course; the DCI merely looked up from his paperwork and grinned his approval, showing the space between his front teeth.
She noticed a small gravy stain on the front of his shirt: he and Wesley had been feasting on pasties earlier. She’d watched
them chatting in the DCI’s office and felt a pang of envy at their relaxed camaraderie.

Gerry suggested that she should take Trish with her and she saw the sense of this. Trish was the kind of person people confided
in.

By the time they left the station the sky was dark grey and it had begun to drizzle. Rachel nosed out of the car park and
waited for the parade of headlights to pass before revving the engine and taking her place in the traffic heading for Neston.

‘I got the address of the assault victim from Neston CID.’

Trish looked at her, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Shouldn’t we speak to the officer who’s dealing with the case? Maybe we shouldn’t
go barging in like this.’

‘Are you saying I’m insensitive?’

‘I’m just saying that we should think about the victim having to relive what happened, that’s all. We’ve got her statement
– surely that’s enough.’

Rachel put her foot down hard on the accelerator pedal. She shared a house with Trish and most of the time they got on fine.
But sometimes Trish’s caution irritated her. ‘We need
to find this man before things escalate – if they haven’t already. She’ll understand that.’

Trish didn’t reply. They drove on in silence until Rachel crossed the bridge over the River Trad and brought the car to a
halt outside a block of flats that had begun its life as a waterside warehouse in the days when the town of Neston had exported
cargos of wool and grain.

Rachel climbed out of the car and marched up to the door, aware that Trish was following behind reluctantly. The rain was
falling heavier now and both women huddled in the shelter of the doorway while Rachel rang the bell marked Flat 2. After a
few seconds a disembodied voice uttered a timid hello and when Rachel announced who they were, they heard a buzzing sound,
like a bee who’d lost the will to live, and Rachel pushed open the heavy glass door.

‘Just go easy on her,’ Trish whispered as they waited for the flat door to open.

‘What do you think I am?’

‘Bossy,’ came the quick answer. Rachel turned to face her friend. There was no smile on her face. Trish meant what she said
and Rachel felt rather shocked. But before she could say a word in her defence, the door opened a crack, then a little wider.

Rachel held up her warrant card and made the introductions. ‘Andrea? We’re really sorry to bother you but can we come in for
a quick chat? We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’ Mindful of Trish’s misgivings, she didn’t move until the woman opened
the door wide and gestured them to come in.

Andrea Washington was a skinny young woman with short dark hair. Her eyes appeared large but it was probably the thinness
of her face that made them seem so. She
hugged a baggy cardigan around her body defensively as she walked through to the lounge, turning her head every now and then
to see if they were following.

No tea was offered as they took their seats on a black leather sofa designed more for fashion than comfort. Andrea perched
on a red chair opposite, sitting on the edge as if she was preparing for a quick getaway. All the furniture in the room was
modern, monochrome and harsh and the lack of pictures on the wall gave the place an empty, clinical look. Rachel preferred
something more homely.

‘Have you heard about the girl who was attacked near Hugford on Sunday night?’ Trish asked gently.

‘It was on the news.’ Andrea spoke almost in a whisper.

‘We think it might be the same man who attacked you. That’s why we need your help.’

Andrea shook her head. ‘I’ve been over it again and again. I just want to forget about it. Please go.’ She stood up and turned
her back on the two women.

Rachel gave Trish an exasperated look. ‘We only came to ask you if you’d remembered any more about your attacker. Please,
Andrea. We really need to catch this man before he hurts someone else. The girl in Hugford was nearly strangled. A passing
motorist scared him off but the next victim might not be so lucky. Please, if there’s anything you can remember, however small,
that might help …’

Andrea slumped down in her seat again and sat there, staring ahead. Rachel watched her, hardly daring to breathe in case it
broke the spell and made what little courage Andrea was mustering disappear.

‘I suppose I was lucky,’ Andrea said after a long silence. ‘He just grabbed me then he pushed me to the ground and tried to
touch me … you know. But even so it’s on my mind
day and night playing over and over in my head.’ She suddenly looked Rachel in the eye. ‘Even though I wasn’t raped, I keep
thinking of what might have happened. Wherever I go and whatever I do he’ll be there … like a stain you can’t get rid
of however hard you try.’

‘You don’t have to let him win, Andrea,’ said Rachel, trying to hide her rising anger. ‘You were on your way home from a pub,
weren’t you?’

Andrea nodded.

‘In the statement you gave after the attack you said you’d met a man there.’

‘That’s right. It looked promising at first but we didn’t really hit it off. If we had, I wouldn’t have been walking home
alone, would I?’

Rachel caught Trish’s eye. ‘What was this man’s name?’

‘Rory. He was full of himself. Said he was a successful businessman – I reckoned he was a prat. Fancied himself something
rotten.’

‘Did he tell you his surname?’

Andrea shook her head.

‘Could he have followed you from the pub?’

Andrea thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

Andrea didn’t reply.

‘Can you remember what this Rory told you about himself ? We’d like to speak to him.’

‘He said he owned a yacht in Tradmouth. And he had a flashy car – a Ferrari, I think – but it was in a garage. He lived just
outside Tradmouth near the golf course and he owned a hotel or something. I wasn’t taking much notice ’cause I thought it
was a load of bullshit.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Around five feet ten. Short dark hair. Good looking. Blue eyes. Nice leather jacket. Not bad really but I felt there was
something not quite right about him. He talked quite posh but occasionally he slipped back into a local accent. I think he
was putting on an act to impress me.’

‘The man who attacked you – could it have been this Rory?’

Andrea frowned. ‘I didn’t think so at the time. The man who … well, he was wearing a dark anorak with a hood but I suppose
he could have slipped it on over that jacket. He was around the same height, I suppose but …’

‘He was wearing a mask.’

‘Yes … a silly cartoon thing.’

‘Was it a dog?’

Andrea shrugged her shoulders. ‘It might have been. I didn’t have a chance to look that closely.’

‘You say you keep thinking about the attacker – you must have remembered more since you last spoke to the police. Something
small maybe. Something about his clothes. Something he did or said.’

Andrea looked round, as if she feared someone was hidden in a dark corner, listening. ‘There is something.’

‘Go on.’ Rachel glanced at Trish who was sitting by her side, enthralled.

‘It was a smell when he put his hand over my mouth. I tried to describe it to the police but I didn’t know what it was. Then
I went to the Arts Festival at the museum last week and I smelled it again … or something like it.’

‘What was it?’ Trish couldn’t help asking the question.

‘There was an artist painting the church. He was going to auction the picture for charity.’ She hesitated. ‘It smelled very
similar.’

‘What did?’

‘The paint he was using. Oil paint. He smelled of oil.’

It was almost six o’clock and Wesley sat at his desk, deep in thought, turning his pen over and over in his fingers. The sound
of the phone shattered the silence and made him jump. He picked up the receiver and after a brief conversation he made his
way slowly to Gerry’s office.

‘Rachel’s just called,’ he said. ‘Her and Trish visited Andrea Washington, the Neston victim. Andrea said she thought the
man who attacked her smelled of oil – maybe oil paint.’

‘She didn’t mention it in her original statement.’

‘She’s only just remembered. She smelled some oil paint at an art exhibition and it brought it all back.’

Gerry took a deep breath. ‘Oil. Oil paint … or maybe engine oil? What do you think?’

‘Alan Jakes works in a garage.’

‘We’ve got to find him, Wes. The fact that he was in the Anglers’ Arms on the night of the attack on Clare is ringing ruddy
great alarm bells in my head. All patrols are on the lookout for him but now I think we should put the message out that it’s
urgent.’

‘Andrea Washington said she met a man in the pub before she was attacked. His name was Rory and he said he was some sort of
businessman. She doesn’t think he’s got anything to do with the attack but you never know.’

Gerry put his head in his hands. He looked tired. And he hadn’t had anything to eat since his lunchtime pasty. He raised his
head and surveyed his paperwork. ‘Does she know this Rory’s surname? He might have seen something.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘He just chatted her up. I don’t think they got as far as surnames or addresses.’

‘Let’s make a real effort to find Jakes. He’s our most likely candidate for the attack on Clare Mayers.’

‘Wouldn’t she have recognised him?’

‘Not if he was pissing about in some kind of mask. That must be what she meant by a dog’s head, don’t you think?’

Wesley suddenly remembered something he’d seen when he’d been reading through the heap of statements and interview reports
that had accumulated on his desk during the last couple of days. ‘Didn’t Jakes’s boss say he’d been to Florida with his sister
recently? Disney World’s in Florida. I bet you can buy cartoon character masks in Disney World.’

Gerry smiled approvingly. ‘Good thinking, Wes. Hadn’t you better go? I’ll give you a call at home if uniform have any luck.’

The walk home seemed shorter than usual, maybe because he was hurrying, anxious to be out of the cold. The streets leading
up to his house were so steep that they left summer visitors breathless. But Wesley had become used to them over the years;
he reckoned that few residents of Tradmouth really needed to visit a gym.

As he walked he had the idea of inviting Ian Petrie over one night for a meal, if his stay in Tradmouth was going to be prolonged.
A hotel in a strange town could be a lonely place. Pam would need some notice to feed an extra mouth, of course; particularly
one she didn’t know well. When Neil arrived on their doorstep he was always happy to accept any leftovers that were going
but Wesley’s old boss was a different matter.

As he turned into their cul de sac the first thing he noticed was Della’s car parked in their drive. This was all he needed
after a hard day. He steeled himself and unlocked the front door with his key. He could hear Della braying in the
kitchen. And an unfamiliar male voice saying something in reply. As he stepped into the hall, Pam emerged from the living
room, an exasperated frown on her face.

‘What’s going on?’

‘My mother’s brought someone round – the son of the woman who runs the animal sanctuary. She claims it’s to show him how the
kitten’s settling in. But, knowing Della, she’ll have another agenda … not that he’ll be suspecting a thing.’ She rolled
her eyes to heaven. ‘I was hoping to get the kids off to bed so I could prepare my lessons for tomorrow.’

‘Shall I have a word?’ Wesley had no idea what he’d say but he thought he’d better make the offer. He’d been about to mention
a possible dinner invitation to Ian Petrie but he knew that the time wasn’t right. Pam had enough on her plate and her mother’s
visit wasn’t helping.

Wesley took off his coat and pushed the kitchen door open. Della was sitting at the table, a glass of white wine in her hand.
A man stood by the sink, holding the kitten which looked tiny in his large hands. He was at least twenty-five years Della’s
junior with the lean look of a regular gym attendee and tousled dark hair. He didn’t look Della’s usual type somehow. She
usually went for rogues, wastrels and men more interested in the fact that she had a steady job and her own house than her
looks and personality. If she had her eye on this one, he was certainly an improvement. And there was something familiar about
him, although Wesley couldn’t think what it was.

‘Guy, this is Wesley, my son-in-law. I told you he was a policeman, didn’t I? But don’t hold it against him.’

Guy put the kitten down gently on the floor and offered Wesley his hand. His handshake was firm and rather hearty.
‘I’ve done some work for the police myself. I teach psychology at Morbay University.’