The Killer Inside (19 page)

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the Slovenian, ‘I’m looking for Elysha…’ she hesitated. She had almost said ‘Wilde’ but stopped herself just in time. ‘Elysha Smith,’ she said.

‘Ellie?’ he smiled at her.

‘Yes. Is she working today?’

He frowned and turned to the Greek boy. ‘Andris, is Ellie on today?’

‘No, she’s off,’ he replied, shaking coffee grounds out of a shiny silver funnel. ‘She’s in tomorrow, I think.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ She ordered a coffee, wondering if there was anything else she could ask without arousing suspicion. There was no way they would give out her mobile number. She couldn’t afford to say anything that might alert Elysha to the fact that someone was on her trail. With a nod she took the cardboard cup and headed for the door. She would try the pest control man again and if that failed she would have to come back here in the morning.

She walked towards the office, pausing at the edge of the pavement to take a big slug of expresso. There was a cluster of four phone booths across the road. The first one she went into had a slew of vomit down the perspex partition. With a shudder she stepped into the next one. All she had left in the way of usable coins was a fifty pence piece. She dialled the number without much hope but to her surprise it was answered after the first ring.

‘PD Pest Control.’ It was a live version of the voice she’d heard earlier.

‘Oh, er, good morning. Afternoon, I mean.’ She scrambled back into gear. ‘I was wondering if you could help me?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, it’s vermin.’

‘What kind of vermin? Rats? Mice? Pigeons?’

‘I’m not sure, actually – it’s a bit complicated. I was wondering if I could talk it over with you. Where are you based?’  

‘I’m in Highgate. Near the mosque. Coburg Road’  

‘Oh, yes, I know. It’s not far from me. Could I come round?’ She pulled her lips in tight against her teeth.  

‘Well I’m there now, actually. Just popped back for a bit of lunch. I’ll be here for the next half hour or so if that suits. Otherwise it’ll have to be tonight.’  

‘Okay, give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.’ She scribbled down the number of the house and replaced the receiver. There was no time to go back to the office. She would have to plan out what to say in the car on the way over.

Number four Coburg Road wasn’t difficult to find. A white transit van with PD Pest Control in large no-nonsense lettering was parked right outside it. The house was in a street dating from the same era as her own. But unlike the terrace she lived in these were very narrow, low-roofed buildings. From the outside number four looked no bigger than the maisonette she had been to this morning.  

She parked in the next street. No sense in giving away any more of herself than she needed to. There was a weather beaten gate, half off its hinges, leading to a tiny front yard with tall dandelions sprouting from the cracks in
the Victorian paving slabs. Tobacco-coloured blinds were drawn down over the single bay window. Megan stepped up to the front door. Dead leaves from last autumn had settled in the corners of the porch, adding to the neglected look. Gingerly she stretched out her hand to lift the tarnished brass knocker.

For a moment she could hear nothing but the distant hum of traffic. Then she caught the shuffle of footsteps. The door opened no more than two inches. But it was enough. Enough to recognise the face behind it.

It was the woman in the photographs. Sonia Smith. As the door opened wider Megan could see that her hair was still long and black. It had the flat, brittle, Sindy doll quality created by decades of dying and straightening. But she certainly didn’t look thirty-six. Her skin was taut and smooth under its layer of makeup. The eyes were no longer ringed with heavy black eyeliner but without it she seemed more attractive than she had looked seventeen years ago. She was staring at Megan in an uncertain, rather wary way.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ Megan began. Her mind was racing ahead. Imagining this woman walking into Strangeways in a blonde wig. Standing in line as the sniffer dogs went up and down the row of visitors. How would she have done it? Wrapped it in clingfilm and put it in her mouth? That was the usual method of throwing the dogs off the scent. Perhaps she would have gone into the visiting room with the fiver they were allowed to carry for refreshments; bought a packet of crisps from the little old ladies serving the tea, then spat the gear into it at an opportune moment. ‘I… er…’ She forced her mind back to the present. ‘I’m here to see Paul. I spoke to him earlier about him doing some work for me.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Her face relaxed. ‘He’s having a sandwich in the back. Do you want to come through?’

Megan followed the woman through the narrow hallway. Sonia’s low-cut jeans clung tightly to her small buttocks. A gold belt snaked round a waist unmarred by any rolls of fat. From behind, she could be mistaken for a teenager. Was this
the killer? Had she delivered those fatal packages to Carl Kelly and Patrick Ryan?

‘He’s in here.’ Sonia pushed open the door to the kitchen and stood aside to let Megan through. ‘Paul! Visitor for you.’ As she squeezed past Megan caught a scent of something; a hint of some perfume she recognised but couldn’t place. The scent faded and behind her she heard the woman’s slippered feet padding up the stairs. She peered into the kitchen. An orange blind obscured the only window, giving the room a sunset glow. In the far corner she caught sight of the top of a man’s head. The rest of his upper body was obscured by the newspaper held up to his face. He lowered it as she approached and she saw roundish, friendly features and mousey hair tinged with grey. A slightly bulging stomach nudged the table as he turned towards her. Crumbs clung to the bobbly fabric of his jumper.

‘’Ow do? Good timing – just finished me sandwich.’ He waved at the bench seat across the table. ‘This is what passes as the office. Sorry about the mess.’ He pushed the remains of his lunch out of the way. Two crusts of bread with bits of what looked like Branston pickle oozing out of them. And a half-drunk mug of tea with the claret and blue Aston Villa logo emblazoned on it. ‘What’s the problem, then, cock?’

She’d never quite got used to this uniquely regional form of address, used without reference to gender. ‘Well,’ she said, perching herself on the corner of the bench, ‘something’s making a mess of the garden, but I’m not quite sure what it is.’

He leaned towards her and she was aware of an odour unrelated to the pickle or the unfinished tea. It was a smell of neglect, of excess, like sweaty feet or rancid vomit. But it was neither of those things. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She wondered how someone like Sonia had been drawn into a relationship with a man like this. Was he her partner
in crime? Had she traded herself for a means of murdering her enemies?

‘What sort of mess?’ he said. ‘Are we talking damaged plants or holes in the ground or what?’

‘Holes in the ground,’ she replied, nodding to lend conviction to the story. ‘Loads of them all over the lawn.’

‘Sounds like a mole problem then.’

‘Do you think so? I didn’t think you got moles in the centre of Birmingham.’

‘Oh, the little buggers’ll get anywhere,’ he said. ‘But don’t you worry, I’ve got just the thing.’

‘What?’ She looked at him, the pulse in her neck beating hard enough for her to feel it.

‘Traps,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ Her heart sank. Was this another blind alley? Had she allowed her imagination to run away with her? ‘What sort of traps,’ she asked, playing for time while she tried to think up another angle.

‘Steel ones. They’re the latest thing.’

‘I hope they’re not cruel. I couldn’t bear to think of hurting the poor little things.’

‘They’re very quick, actually. They don’t suffer at all. I’ll show you one if you like.’ He pushed the table towards her and got to his feet. ‘Come and have a look in the van.’

She hesitated for a moment before following him. What if he’d rumbled her? What if he was taking her outside to bundle her into the van and get rid of her? She looked at his beaming face. It was hard to imagine this man as a cold, calculating killer. But, she reminded herself, killing was what he did for a living: he despatched animals without a second thought, so why not people? With a deep breath she rose from the bench. There might be something else in the van, some clue as to whether or not he was involved in the murders. This was no time for bottling out.

There was no sign of Sonia as they walked back along the hall to the front door. As they stepped out onto the pavement Megan glanced at the upstairs windows, wondering if she was watching. But if she was there she was well hidden: both bedrooms had their curtains drawn. Why was she holing herself up like this? Who was she afraid of?

The van’s doors opened with a rumble of metal on metal. The stench hit Megan as she stepped off the pavement. It was an overpowering version of the odour that clung to the man. And now she could see where it came from. A large plastic dustbin sat in the middle of the van’s floor, flies buzzing round the dead animals spilling out of it. She caught sight of a fox’s brush draped over the body of the largest rat she had ever seen. The limp heads of two magpies hung over the front of the bin, their eyes dull in death. And in amongst the heap of grey and brown fur in the middle was what looked like the snout of a mole.

‘Sorry about the whiff. I haven’t had chance to get this lot incinerated. Problem with the van.’ He turned and grinned at her. ‘This is what I’m after.’ He leaned in and pulled something from under a moth-eaten tartan blanket. The bars of the trap glinted as the sunlight caught them. He chuckled as he handed it to her. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not going to take your fingers off!’

Gingerly she took it. Pretended to examine it. She was thinking about the mole in the dustbin. There were probably dozens more in there. Was this where it had come from, the one the AA man had found in her car?

‘Of course, we used to use poison.’ He winked at her. ‘Not s’posed to do that anymore – bloody EC interfering as usual – but if the traps don’t do the trick…’ He broke off, tapping the side of his nose.

She nodded slowly. ‘What kind of poison did you used to use?’

‘Strychnine.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘Really nasty stuff. You wouldn’t want that. Not if you’re an animal lover.’

She handed the trap back to him, her eyes searching the van’s dim interior. There were boxes and containers of all shapes and sizes. Any one of them could have strychnine inside and he’d as good as told her it was still an option. ‘How many of these traps have you got?’ she asked. ‘You see, it’s a very big garden: in fact, it’s grounds rather than an actual garden: it’s one of the halls of residence at the university.’

‘Oh? Which one?’

‘Linden House.’ She watched his face intently. The eyes creased at the corners.

‘I know it,’ he said. ‘My girlfriend’s daughter was living there up until a week or so ago. They’re nice, those grounds. Didn’t know they had a mole problem.’

‘Oh really?’ Megan smiled back. She mustn’t sound too eager. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Elysha. Elysha Smith. She’s doing International Politics. Very bright girl.’

‘But you say she’s left us? Is she okay? I hope living in hall hasn’t put her off.’

‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I think she had a row with her boyfriend or something.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they’re like at that age. She’s moved in with one of her friends now, I think.’

Megan’s mind was racing ahead as he spoke. Now both mother and daughter had a strong connection to the murders. Had one of them done it? Both of them? And was this man an accessory? Would he really have been so open with her if he was?

‘Anyway,’ he went on, pushing the trap back under the blanket, ‘I’ve got plenty of these little beauties and I can always get my hands on a few more.’

‘Okay,’ she said, stepping back from the van and its macabre cargo, ‘Can you give me a ballpark figure for the job? Obviously I’ll have to discuss it with my boss but I just need to give him a rough idea.’

‘Shouldn’t be much over a couple of hundred,’ he replied. ‘I’d have to come and have a proper look first.’

‘Have you got a card?’

He fished in the pocket of his overalls and brought one out. There was a smear of what looked like dried blood in the top right hand corner. It had his name in full below the business logo: Paul Deboney. It was almost certainly one of those cards that were printed pronto at motorway service stations: fifty for three quid, write anything you want.

‘Thanks.’ She tucked it into the front pocket of her handbag. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ As she turned to walk down the street she glanced up at the bedroom windows again. Was that a flicker of movement in one of the sets of curtains? She couldn’t be sure. As she made her way along the pavement she felt eyes boring into her back. His or hers? She needed time to think this out. To assemble all the pieces of the jigsaw.

On the drive back to the university her stomach was doing strange things. It was gurgling as it would when she was ferociously hungry but she felt nauseous at the same time. The smell of Paul Deboney’s van was clinging to her clothes, making the thought of food quite repulsive. The route to the office took her past a juice bar called Gingers. Perhaps that would be okay: a fruit smoothie or some vegetable-based concoction: anything that didn’t involve meat, anyway.

As she sucked blueberry seeds through a fat straw she thought about Sonia Smith. Tried to imagine her as she was seventeen years ago, trapped in a flat with three
knife-wielding
men, possibly made to watch her partner being stabbed to death. Perhaps Elysha had been in the room as
well, too young to understand what was going on. Or maybe she had been asleep upstairs. Either way Sonia would have been terrified for her and for her unborn child, if what Dom had guessed at was true. Why hadn’t Kelly and his gang killed them all? Had some kind of morality kicked in when they realised she was pregnant? Weren’t they afraid that if she lived she might identify them? Or had they made some threat to ensure her silence? Said the child would die if she grassed them up?

She drained her glass with an embarrassingly loud slurp of the straw but no one turned to look at her. Not even the girl behind the counter. She thought of Elysha, tried to bring her face to mind, framed by the giant coffee machines at Starbucks. There were three or four girls who had served her on a regular basis over the past six months or so. There was the black student with the Yorkshire accent; a small dark-eyed girl whose English sounded East European. And there were a couple of white girls whose voices blended in with the locals. One quite plump and pretty with a piercing through her eyebrow and the other tall and slim with elfin features and a reluctance to engage in the small talk Megan always tried to make when she went in there. Elysha must be one of these two. But which one?

When she arrived back at the office she searched for Elysha on the university’s intranet system. Her name and email address were there all right. Next she called up the course registers for the Department of International Politics. What Paul Deboney had said was absolutely accurate; she was a first year student and David Dunn was her tutor. But her address was down as Linden House: had Deboney lied about that? Probably not, she thought: it was much more likely to be a case of the system lagging behind the action.

Her train of thought was interrupted by her mobile ringing out. Perhaps that was David Dunn now, picking up
the message she’d left this morning. He would be able to tell her a lot more about Dom Wilde’s long-lost daughter. She snatched up the phone. But it was Delva’s voice she heard.

‘Meg, are you okay?’ There was no pause for a reply. ‘I’ve got some news: Tim’s come up with something. He’s found a third man.’

‘What?’ Megan almost dropped the phone.

‘Someone else was convicted with Kelly and Ryan.’

A surge of adrenaline whizzed up the smoothie in her stomach. ‘How the hell did he miss that when he went through the records the first time?’  

‘He didn’t miss it. The other guy, Lee Deacon, was dealt with by the Magistrates’ Court because he pleaded guilty. He was only sent to Crown Court for sentencing and he appeared on a different day from the other two. He’s the right age, Meg, forty-one, which makes him easily old enough to have been in on the attack on Moses Smith. Tim’s checked with the Ministry of Justice: he’s in an open prison near Redditch.’  

‘Hewell Grange?’  

‘Yes, do you know it?’  

‘I do.’ Megan pulled open a drawer with her free hand, fishing out a fat black contacts book. ‘I’ll get on to the governor. I just hope to God we’re not too late.’