The Killer Inside (16 page)

For a moment she said nothing. She was trying to take it in. It was hard to imagine the caring, gentle man she had come to know doing the things he had just described. To mask her shock at his revelation, she slipped into her psychologist’s persona. ‘Why do you think you were like that, Dom? What made you so promiscuous?’

‘Oh, I could trot out all kinds of excuses,’ he said. ‘The SAS is a good one: makes you cut yourself off from your emotions; turns you into some kind of sex-starved robot who’ll shag anything in a skirt as long as there’s no commitment required.’ He shrugged. ‘There are no excuses, though. Not really. It’s just the way I was then. If I hadn’t ended up in here I’m pretty certain I’d be dead by now. It sounds mad, I know, but prison probably saved my life.’

She stared at him intently. In her experience men who habitually broke the rules were the hardest to rehabilitate.
And here was a man who had confessed to not one but two of the worst patterns of behaviour – one at the extreme end of the criminal scale and the other, although anti-social rather than illegal, demonstrating a total lack of empathy and self-control. Could she really believe that such a man could change so completely? It flew in the face of all she had learned in the prison system. Was Dom Wilde’s gentle, caring persona just a sham?

Ronnie Burns was watching CCTV footage with one of the Strangeways warders – the one who had been on duty in the visiting room the last time Rebecca Jordan had come to see Patrick Ryan.

‘That’s her.’ The man leaned across the desk, pointing a stubby finger at the grainy black and white image. ‘Bit of a stunner, she was. I remember thinking: how’s a dope like Ryan got himself a bird like that?’

‘Hmm.’ Ronnie clicked the tape to a halt, freezing the woman’s head. ‘Very long hair. Can’t see much of her face, can you? It looks very light. Was she blonde?’

‘She was,’ the warder replied. ‘Don’t suppose she was a natural, though.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, if you look closely you can see she’s got very dark eyebrows. Can I forward the tape a bit?’ He pressed ‘play’. The woman lurched back to life. Her hair shrouded her face as she walked through the prison gate, but as she handed over her bag, she flicked her head. He stopped the tape. ‘There… see?’  

Ronnie nodded, moving closer to the screen. She pressed ‘rewind’ and watched the sequence again. ‘I think we need to talk to his cell mates, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Find out what they know about this girl.’

Dominic Wilde unclasped his hands and laid them on his
knees. ‘I’m sorry, Meg.’ He slid one hand forward an inch, then pulled it back. ‘I should have told you everything at the start.’

She bit her lip, wishing he wouldn’t look at her like that. It made her feel like a hunter confronted by a wounded animal; made her feel as if she was the one that was in the wrong. Taking a deep breath, she folded her arms across her chest. ‘Yes. You should have. But we all want to be liked, I suppose. That I can understand.’ She was aware that she was trying to rationalise it all, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘I suppose you needn’t have told me the other stuff – about your girlfriend and the baby. It took some guts to admit to that.’

He studied his hands, saying nothing, as if he was too ashamed to acknowledge this.

‘What happened to her after she left you? Do you know?’

He shook his head. ‘Not really. I heard on the grapevine that she went on the game. There was a really evil bastard called Leroy Spinks pimping girls in Birmingham at the time. I think she was probably one of his girls. I was in and out of prison then, but once, when I was out, I went round the streets asking after her. Spinks came after me; chased me down the road with a bloody great machete.’

‘So you didn’t find her.’

He shook his head. ‘Like I said, I was in and out of jail. By the time I got another chance to ask around no one had seen hide nor hair of her.’

‘You must have been worried about Elysha.’

‘I was, yeah. I didn’t know what had happened to her: whether she was still with her mum, whether she’d been taken into care, or what. It was such a relief when the chaplain found her name on the electoral roll.’ He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Can we start again, Meg? If you still
want to, I mean.’

‘Well,’ she said, her voice as neutral as she could make it. ‘I think we both want to get to the bottom of what happened to Carl, don’t we? There are things I need to ask you. Things I didn’t realise were important until I went to Strangeways. Will you help me?’

He nodded, lowering his lids so that she was unable to catch the expression in his eyes. She wondered if he had any inkling of the feelings she was battling to conceal. She started telling him what had happened in Manchester, forcing herself into professional mode as she described the subsequent visit to Linden House. She watched his face change when she told him about Jodie Shepherd being in a coma.

‘That’s some scam,’ he said, sucking air between his teeth.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s very devious and very clever. I have no idea who’s behind it, but at the moment all I have to go on is the appearance of the girls who visited the two men. I don’t even know at this stage if it’s one girl or two. So I need you to tell me everything you can remember about the one that came to see Carl. I’m going to ask for CCTV footage, obviously, but if you saw her close up, there might be things you noticed that the cameras might miss.

‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his fingers along his jawbone, ‘She was young. A lot younger than him. She looked no more than early twenties. She had long, black hair – very straight, sort of Cleopatra-ish, if you know what I mean – and her eyes were dark too. Can’t remember what colour, though.’

‘Could the hair have been a wig, do you think?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘What about her height? Was she tall? Short?’

‘About average, I think. Hard to tell, really, ’cos I only saw her sitting down.’

‘Anything else about her? Anything unusual, I mean?
Tattoos, that kind of thing?’

He screwed up his eyes, remembering. ‘Not really, no. She never came dressed tartily, like some of the women do. Always covered herself up. So she could have had a tattoo but I never spotted one.’

‘I’d better get hold of the CCTV footage and see her for myself, I think.’ Her fingers went involuntarily to the ruby stud she was wearing in her nose. She rubbed it distractedly, thinking about the lengths this woman had gone to, the risks she must have taken, to get inside this place with her deadly cargo. ‘I only wish I had a clearer idea of a possible motive for all this.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘Dom, before this morning, before all…’ she faltered, unable to spell it out a second time. ‘We’d been working well as a team, hadn’t we?’

‘Yes.’ He gave her a nervous smile. ‘We made good team mates.’

‘There’s something else I want to ask you about but I need you to promise me it won’t go any further.’

He bit on his knuckles. ‘Meg, I’ve let you down once already, I swear I’ll never do that again.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you what I found out about Patrick Ryan. I’ve got a copy of his file: he and Carl were sent down on the same day, by the same court. Both were convicted of drugs offences. I think it’s highly likely they were part of the same gang.’ She paused, watching it register. ‘I know you were inside at the time but Patrick Ryan was the same age as you. I was wondering if you ever came across him.’ She opened her briefcase and took out the photocopied pages Ronnie had given her. The photograph of Ryan was black and white. ‘He had red hair,’ she said, ‘and his address when he was arrested was Finch Road in Lozelles. Does it ring any bells?’

‘No.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘I would remember a
face like that. He must have been well down the food chain when I was doing the rounds.’ She heard him draw in his breath as he studied the file. ‘It could be that he was just dealing on a part-time basis. I’ve known lots of guys who do it every so often as a sideline to raise a bit of extra cash: combine it with their day job, so to speak.’

‘But surely you wouldn’t get five years for small-time stuff?’

‘He might have been set up to take the rap for someone else. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. Of course, the other possibility, if he was friends with Carl, is that there was a bit of GBH thrown in as well. As I said, Carl was no angel when he was on the outside. Maybe Patrick was in the same mould.’

‘Do you think he could have been in on the killing of Moses Smith?’

‘Well, Carl never mentioned anybody else, but the golden rule in this place is not to grass anyone up, ever, unless you want a knife between your shoulder blades. And let’s not forget that Patrick Ryan’s brother’s banged up in here. So it’s quite possible, yes, and it’s the only real hint of a link we’ve got so far, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘It’s proving it, though, isn’t it? What we need is hard facts.’

‘Hmm.’ He tucked in his chin. ‘It’s difficult to know where to begin – there are so many different threads to it. There’s the girls – or girl – visiting the prisons; the drugs link between Patrick and Carl; and then there’s the baby in the grave as well. Did you get permission for the exhumation?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but I’m expecting to hear something today. I put a bit of heat on that DS Willis before I went up to Manchester. It’s a longshot, though, isn’t it? God knows if it’ll make things any clearer.’

‘Well, the way things are, I think you’ve got to try every
avenue that’s open to you.’ He paused. ‘I’d rather you didn’t pursue all this on your own, though. If things were different I’d be doing this with you. You’ve seen what they’re capable of, Meg. What if someone finds out you’re onto them? It worries me to death to think what might happen.’ His eyes met hers for a second. She caught the anguish in them and had to look away. What on earth would he say if she were to tell him about the incident with the car? But she wouldn’t tell him. It wouldn’t be fair. There was nothing he could do.

It was hard, saying goodbye without being able to touch him. Despite everything he had told her, the feelings were still there. It was as if his fallibility had increased his magnetism. Now he seemed more like her, struggling to subdue spectres that were never very far away. With a supreme effort of will she walked to the door and, without a backward glance, strode down the corridor to the administration block.

To her relief the governor was away for the day, saving her from the annoyance of having to ask his permission to see the CCTV footage of Carl Kelly’s visitor. The office manager knew her now and handed it over without any fuss. Not that it proved to be of much use. The pictures were grainy and blurred and the face so indistinct that she would have been hard-pressed to put an age to the woman with the long dark hair.

By lunchtime she was back in her office at the university. Amongst the bundle of mail she’d carried up from her pigeonhole was a pale yellow envelope. She recognised the handwriting immediately. It was from Nathan MacNamara. She felt her blood pressure soar as she ripped it open. He had sent her another card. With flowers on the front this time. A bunch of white lilies. The sort of card you might send to the relative of someone who’d died. Her throat tightened as she opened it. There was no printed verse, just more of his handwriting filling the whole of one surface:

Megan groaned as she laid the card face down on her desk. She was immensely relieved that he was leaving, but the relief was tinged with guilt. What if she had wrecked his chances of getting a good degree? Was he likely to get the first his tutor had predicted if he switched courses at this stage? What if they made him retake the whole of his second year? He’d be deeper in debt then and all because of her.

It’s not your fault
. Her mother’s voice again. The voice of reason. No, it
wasn’t
her fault but it didn’t stop her from worrying about the boy’s future. Should she reply to him? Probably best not to. An official letter from the departmental administrator would be more appropriate.

With a sigh she slipped the card into a drawer and turned her attention to the emails that were waiting for her. As she scrolled down she spotted one from Ronnie. With a stab of
her finger she brought it up:

Megan stared at the screen. Of course, she thought. It was the perfect ruse for getting in touch with a prisoner. Write to him saying you’d seen his details on a dating site, when actually there was no advert. How would he ever know, if he had no access to the internet? Carl Kelly’s Evening Mail ad had probably been a similar piece of fiction. A shame, because a real advert would have to have been paid for, leaving a trail that could be chased. But she was beginning to realise that whoever was responsible for these murders was far too clever to make an error like that.

She tapped out a hasty reply to the message and when she
pressed ‘send’ she noticed that a new one had come through while she was writing, this time from Delva:

‘Bloody Willis!’ Megan thumped the heel of her hand on the desk. Why hadn’t he told her? She grabbed the phone and dialled the BTV newsroom.

‘You didn’t know?’ Delva was incredulous.

‘Not until I got your email. Bastard’s obviously more concerned about you lot than he is about the investigation. And as for putting a rocket up his arse, I think we’ve probably got Greater Manchester Police to thank for that.’ She explained what Ronnie had told her; about the case conference due to take place between the two forces.

‘Well, we’re going to have to think very carefully about what to say in the programme tonight,’ Delva said. ‘This could be a great opportunity to put the wind up the killer, couldn’t it? If we make out there’s something the police are onto…some new DNA technique that’s likely to turn up stuff they wouldn’t have had available to them before.’

‘How would you do that, though? I mean, it’s not, is it? All it’s going to tell them is whether the baby is related to Moses Smith.’

‘
We
know that but the killer doesn’t,’ Delva replied. ‘We could hype up the DNA angle but not be specific about what the police expect to find. We’ll have cameras at the graveyard tonight. The whole place is going to be floodlit, so we can keep a careful eye on everyone who turns up for a gander.’

‘Okay…’ Megan was thinking ahead, wondering how she could watch those who turned up at the graveyard while simultaneously monitoring the exhumation. It wasn’t going to be easy. Her next call was to the sergeant. She gritted her teeth as she waited for him to answer.

‘DS Willis.’ He sounded hassled. As he damn well should, she thought.

She didn’t bother announcing herself, just cut to the chase: ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the exhumation?’

‘I… er… I was going to call you when…’ She could hear
him trying to think on his feet. ‘When it was over,’ he said, in a tone that defied contradiction.

‘When it was over? What bloody good would that have been, Detective Sergeant?’ She hadn’t intended to swear, but he really was unbelievable.

‘Now don’t take that attitude, Dr Rhys,’ he bristled. ‘I can’t see any possible reason for you being at the exhumation.’

‘You do know about the Strangeways inquiry? That I’m now working with the Manchester force as well? How can I play a useful part in any case conference if you choose to keep me ignorant of the facts?’

‘I’m not trying to exclude, you – not at all. I will, of course, keep you informed of the results of any tests performed on the body…’

‘That’s not good enough, I’m afraid.’ She strove to control her rising anger. ‘I want to be there when that coffin comes out of the ground.’ She didn’t add that she had absolutely no confidence in his ability to handle it without a cock-up, but the implication was plain.

‘Really, Doctor Rhys,’ he cleared his throat. ‘I don’t see that there’s any value in your being there. I can’t understand why you’re hell-bent on witnessing something so…so ghoulish…’

Oh, right, she thought, he’s making me out to be no better than the rubbernecks who’ll be flocking to St Mary’s for a freakshow. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘We’ve got no way of knowing in advance what we might find when that coffin comes up. Let’s not forget that the grave is a crime scene and anything we find there is going to need careful interpretation. Who better to do that than a forensic psychologist? I need to see whatever’s there before anything gets disturbed.’

She heard a slow, deliberate sigh. ‘Well, I can see you’re not going to be talked out of this,’ Willis replied wearily. ‘I still don’t see the point myself but if you want to come,
then come. In two staccato sentences he told her when to turn up and issued strict orders about the media. They were allowed to film the proceedings from a suitable distance but no one present at the exhumation was to talk to them. Megan wondered how Delva was going to react to this approach. If Willis thought he was going to fob her off with a few shots of a mini-digger manoeuvring about in the dark he was in for a nasty shock. Perhaps the police press office was putting someone up for the occasion: someone a lot more
media-savvy
than the detective sergeant.

Megan arrived early at the graveyard. There was a gap of two hours between the story breaking on the teatime news programme and the start of the exhumation. She sat in her car, watching the gates. If Delva’s plan had worked, someone connected to the baby’s burial was surely going to turn up. Putting herself in that person’s shoes, she would want to be there sooner rather than later.

There was already a cordon around the churchyard and she could see the yellow shovel of a digger protruding from the green canvas screens shielding Moses Smith’s grave. There appeared to be no police presence at the moment, which surprised her. As she watched, a group of teenage boys approached the gates, playing football with a Coke can. She wound down her window to catch their conversation. There was nothing but the odd grunt until they stuck their noses through the bars of the gates and began to wail like cartoon ghosts. When it became obvious that there was no one in the graveyard to annoy, they turned their attention back to the Coke can, kicking it at a girl who was walking past with a pushchair. It narrowly missed the plastic canopy draped over the baby inside and the mother yelled an expletive at the boys, who ran off, laughing. She shouted something else
but Megan didn’t catch it because at that moment her mobile phone rang out.

She groaned when she saw the caller ID. It was Jonathan. She had taken the coward’s way out, putting off returning his calls. She had intended to do it on Sunday, but the incident with the mole, coupled with Delva’s bombshell about Dom, had left her so emotionally drained she hadn’t felt able to face the conversation she knew they had to have. There was no reason not to speak to him now. She had to do it; had to tell him.

‘You’re still alive, then?’

The flippant comment was tinged with warmth. It set off shockwaves of guilt. ‘Jonathan,’ she faltered, ‘How… how are you doing?’ It sounded lame. Unenthusiastic. Which just about summed up the way she felt.

‘I’m fine. Had a good time with Laura – she seems better, thank goodness. And I’m sticking around for a while – in this country, I mean. The Bosnia operation’s been put on hold for a couple of weeks.’

‘Oh?’ Bosnia. She had forgotten he was supposed to be flying there today to resume the work of identifying bodies in a mass grave.

‘So, as I’ve got some time on my hands I decided to have a chat with old Alistair.’ There was a pause. She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. ‘You know, the pathologist,’ he went on. ‘I met him a few years back on a murder case – nasty arson attack that didn’t leave much of the victim bar the teeth – anyway, I thought I’d give him a bell about this case you’re working on.’

‘You spoke to Alistair Hodge?’ She felt a surge of irritation. What did he think he was doing, poking his nose in without consulting her first?

‘Yes. I offered to do the DNA extraction on the baby. He seemed very keen when I explained it. Anyway, I said I’d
collect the body tomorrow to bring back to the lab in Cardiff and I was wondering if I could come and stay – make up for rushing off the other morning.’

She was staring at a blob of bird shit that had landed on the windscreen and was sliding slowly towards the bonnet of the car. It seemed to take forever and she could hear him breathing at the other end of the phone. The symbolism was so crass it could have come from some dodgy film. But she knew she would never be able to forget this moment. The moment when she finished with him.