An Unfamiliar Murder (21 page)

He looked across at her. “They worked tirelessly at helping me to get in
contact with you.” He shook his head. “But we always came up against a brick
wall.”

Anna pressed her lips together sympathetically before she said, “They
sound like amazing people.”

“They are. It was them that got me into go karting.”

“At Worthington?”

He nodded. “We practiced there every Sunday, but they drove me all over
the country to competitions. I was really good,” he gave a cheeky smile, “even
though I say so myself.” He fidgeted with his feet, kicked off his trainers,
swung his legs onto the bed and laid back. He looked as though he was perched
on a shrink’s couch.

Rab
sighed in happiness. “All those years of
karting made me a top notch driver. Passed my driving test after four lessons.”
He glanced at her smugly.

 
“Wow!”

But
Rab
didn’t hear her. His face had clouded
over. “That was my downfall. That was why they wanted
me
to drive eight years ago.” She remained silent, rapt as he
continued, “I didn’t even know what I was there for. I mean I knew it was a bit
dodgy, but I didn’t know what the job was. It was all top secret. It wasn’t
until I saw the guns . . .”

Anna froze. She tried her hardest not to look shocked. “What happened?”
she asked gently.

“Armed robbery. They’d planned it for months. Only it went wrong and they
shot a guy.” He sat up and looked at her. She could see the hurt in his eyes.

“Did he die?” Her voice was a whisper.

“No, thank goodness.”

Anna nodded, relief flowing through her.

Rab
flinched. “The worst part about it was
Janet and Ron’s faces in court, the day I was sentenced. Their disappointment
sliced through me like a knife.”

“Do you still see them?”

 
“They visited me a few times, but
I was a long way away so we wrote to each other. It was them that got me into
plumbing. I can’t believe that they still believed in me.” He nodded slowly to
himself. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”

So now she knew. “Why plumbing?” Anna asked, keen to lighten the atmosphere.
“Why not engineering, or computers?”

He thought about this for a while. “Didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk
all day long, web designing, drawing specs. for machinery, or in a factory
building something. I like to be out and about. Anyway,” he added, “people will
always need homes, heating, water. And there’s always a shortage of plumbers.”

She nodded. You couldn’t disagree with that. “Are you allowed computers
in prison?” she asked, slightly abashed.

“Computers, yes.” He nodded. “We can use the internet, although it’s
regulated and heavily monitored. Very frustrating . . . I used to set up
everyone’s mobile phones for them though. Loved doing that.”

“Are you allowed mobile phones?”

“Not officially, they are banned, but they still get through.”

“How?”

“Wives, girlfriends . . .” He shrugged. “Where there’s a will there’s a
way, I guess.”

There was a question niggling away at Anna, a question she could no
longer avoid. “Why did you do it?” she asked quietly.

As he looked across at her, she could see the same intense expression
spreading across his face. “I owed someone a favor.”

“What favor could be worth that?” She regretted the words as soon as they
had left her mouth.

Rab’s
face hardened. “You have no idea.”

“Sorry.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her apology. “Everyone knew how much I
wanted to trace my sister. Jonny’s girlfriend worked for the DSS. She used
their main computer to find you. I remember it was called the ‘Departmental
Central Index’ – it contains details of everyone living in the UK. She looked
through the records for you, tracked your new name. Once I had that information
it wasn’t difficult to trace any change of addresses. She went out on a limb
for me, could have lost her job if she had
been found out.”

Anna’s heart sank. “A big favor.”

“You could say that. I was asked to drive for them in return.” He shook
his head. “Shouldn’t have agreed to it. I always knew Jonny was a mad bastard,
but I was desperate.”

She looked across at him, racked with remorse. She couldn’t imagine how
anyone could want to go to such lengths to get to know
her.

Suddenly,
Rab
jumped off the bed and reached
down for his trainers. “That’s it. My life
history,” he said, re-tying his laces. “Now come on, let’s get you home.”

It was like closing a book before you had finished the story. Anna wanted
to reflect on it, discuss it, but he clearly wished to move on. “OK,” she said,
“I’ll just pop to the loo first.”

When she walked back into the bedroom
Rab
was
sitting back on the side of her bed with her mobile phone in hand, looking at
the lit screen. She shot him a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”

“You left it on the bed,” he said, jumping up, “didn’t want you to forget
it.” And with that he handed it to her and headed out the door.

She stared after him for a moment as the light slowly went out, then
grabbed the photo and followed him out of the flat.

*
* *

He watched
them leave from behind the parked cars, across the street. Both of them,
together now. He crouched down as they climbed into the car opposite, careful
not to be seen.
Rab
was talking, he must have said
something amusing because she laughed, a chuckling laugh that one shares with
close friends, family . . . They seemed to be getting to know each other well.

As hatred flushed through him, his mouth curled into an evil grin.
Good. Enjoy it while it lasts. It will make
the pain all the more difficult to bear . . .

*
* *

There was a
pungent smell of alcohol in the air as Anna walked through her parent’s back
door that evening. She smiled to herself. Her father often enjoyed a glass of
whisky in the evenings. Perhaps it made her mother’s company more palatable?

The first thing she saw was a brown, padded envelope, curled in one
corner, sitting on the kitchen table. Curious, she went over and examined it.
As she lifted it, she looked at the addressee: Miss Anna Cottrell 12 Worley
Close, Worthington, Hampton, in the large, scrawling letters of a
thick, black marker pen. There was no postmark.

“Dad!” she called through to the lounge.

Moments later she heard footsteps and then his face, tinged with red from
the heat of the whisky, appeared in the doorway. “You’re back. Any news?” he
asked gingerly.

“Nothing, I’m afraid.” She pressed her lips together.

“Sorry.”

“When did this arrive?” She held up the package.

“No idea. You mother found it posted through the letterbox this evening.
Looks like it was hand delivered. You expecting something?”

Anna turned it over in her hands curiously and squeezed it. “Not that I’m
aware of.”

“Oh.” He watched her turn it over again in her hands. “Well, aren’t you
going to open it?”

She shrugged. “I
guess so.” She pulled down the paper catch on the underside which ripped open
the package revealing a clear plastic bag with what looked like a piece of crumpled
, hard material inside. She searched back through the packet. There was no
note. Puzzled, Anna turned it over. What she saw made her take a sharp intake
of breath. The scream that followed pierced her father right through to the
bone.

Chapter Seventeen

Helen opened
the new message from DS
Strenson
and quickly clicked
on the attachment. A man with fair, almost white, hair, gelled back from his
face, and pale grey eyes stared back at her. Her cheeks flushed with adrenalin.
Could this be Aaron
Gravell
?

The image flicked a switch in her memory. She screwed up her eyes and
thought for a moment before reaching for her policy log, turning back the pages
urgently. Helen reached the page she was looking for and scanned the text. What
she saw made her stomach flip. She grabbed the phone. “Sean?”

She watched Pemberton lift the receiver in the incident room and place it
to his ear through the open Venetian blinds which covered the windows to her
office. As soon as he heard her voice he looked back at her. “Ma’am?”

“Sean, could you get me a copy of the description of the man seen with
Jim
McCafferty
on the day of the murder?”

“Certainly.”

“And find out if there’s any news on the CCTV footage enhancements would
you?” She lifted her wrist and pointed at her watch.

“OK.” He nodded in that animated way that people do when they want to
show understanding from a distance.

“Thank you.” As she replaced the receiver, it rang immediately.

“DCI
Lavery
?”

“Inspector, it’s Alison
Strenson
. Did you get
the e-fit?”

“Yes, thank you. Any leads yet?”

“Not yet. We plan to circulate the image. We’ll keep you informed.”

“Thank you.”

“Actually, I’ve just had a phone call from Anna Cottrell. Apparently,
she’s been trying to contact you.”

Helen screwed up her forehead, reached in her bag for her mobile and clicked
the screen open. Nothing.

“I have no missed calls,” she replied, “I’ll check with the incident
room. What did she want?”

“She’s been sent a package, believes it to be her boyfriend’s tattoo.”

Helen jolted upright. “Has she been interviewed?”

“Not yet. We only just took the call. I wanted to speak with you first.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Where is she now?”

“At her parent’s home in Worthington.”

“I think I’ll go out and see her myself.” She thought back to the piece
of skin removed from Jim
McCafferty’s
arm. “This
could be a direct link with the MO on our murder.”

“No problem. I thought you might say that. Let me know how you wish to
take it forward?”

“Sure. Thanks, Alison.”

“
You’re welcome. Bye
.”
Helen replaced the receiver, walked
over to the window and stared out at the car park below. A man in a black suit
was removing a large briefcase from the boot of his car. But she didn’t pay him
much attention. Instead she stared out over the car roof tops, gathering her
thoughts. She remembered the Super’s concern - “Removal of the tattoo bothers
me.” Nobody knew about the piece of skin removed from Jim
McCafferty’s
arm apart from those working on the investigation. It hadn’t been released to
the press. Her skin prickled.

A brief knock at the door drew her attention away from the window and she
turned to face Sean Pemberton. “Here is the description you asked for.” He
leant over the desk to hand her the paperwork. “And I’ve checked with Pluto
Digital and they are still working on the footage. But they said they’re making
good progress and should be able to forward us some enhanced stills by first
thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Helen said. “Are there any messages for me? I hear Anna
Cottrell has been trying to contact me?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ll check with the others.”

“Thank you.” Helen was only half listening, as he turned and left the
room. Her eyes flashed over the shopkeeper’s description of the man who was
seen with Jim
McCafferty
.

 
“Yes!” she exclaimed, her left hand
clenched into a fist, as he re-joined her, a slip of paper in his hand.

He stared at her confounded.

“We have a match!”

“Pardon?” She ignored his remark, instead re-reading the description, as
if it were too good to be true. He continued to wrinkle his forehead, then
pushed the piece of paper forward. “Found this on Townsend’s desk, came in
about an hour ago.”

“What is it?”

“A message from Edward Cottrell, asking to speak to you.”

 
She shook her head dismissively,
but even Townsend couldn’t spoil the exhilaration she felt at this moment. “Get
your coat!” she said, jumping up. Pemberton thrust his head back and stared at
her. “Where’re we going?” He was looking at her as if she were quite mad.

“I’ll explain in the car. We need to get out to Anna Cottrell’s parent’s
house, and quick!”

 
“Give me two minutes . . .”

*
* *

It was Edward
Cottrell who answered the door. Helen thought how he had visibly aged in the
few days since she had last seen him. Dark shadows had crept underneath his
eyes and the creases on his balding forehead seemed deeper than ever.

There were no greetings, no polite insignificant comments. “Thank you for
coming,” was all he said quietly. He held up his hand once they had joined him
in the hallway to halt them in their tracks. “She’s taken this very badly,” he
said gesturing his head towards the door to the kitchen which was slightly
ajar.

Helen nodded and deliberately lowered her voice. “What time was the
parcel delivered?” she asked.

He looked blank and shook his head. “I’m not sure exactly. My wife found
it when she returned from the shops.” Helen shot Pemberton a quick glance.
So Kathleen hadn’t shared her visit to the police
station that afternoon with her husband.
Edward scratched his head above
the left ear. “Must have been about three o’clock. It certainly wasn’t there
when I went out for the newspaper this morning.”

“Was it hand delivered?” Pemberton asked, as he pulled out his notebook
and started scribbling.

“Definitely, I would say. There doesn’t appear to be any postmark on it.”

“May we see it?” Helen asked. Edward was standing in the middle of the
hallway awkwardly, blocking their way.

“Err. Certainly.” He cringed, causing the wrinkles in his face to deepen
around the eyes.

“Where is it, Mr. Cottrell?”

“It’s in the kitchen – with Anna. She hasn’t let go of it since she
opened it.”

They followed Edward into the kitchen. Anna was seated at the small
breakfast table in the centre of the room. Helen thought how chillingly cold
she looked, despite her parent’s warm central heating; almost ghostlike. She
didn’t acknowledge their presence as they walked in, but sat in the chair
rocking backwards and forwards in slow motion, her eyes frozen on the package
in front of her.

 
Helen picked up the chair next to
Anna and tilted it sideways before sitting down to face her. “Anna,” she spoke
quietly, leaning in towards her. If Anna was aware of her presence she
certainly didn’t acknowledge it.

“Anna?” Still nothing. Helen looked up at the others as Kathleen appeared
at the doorway.

 
“Anna, its Detective Chief
Inspector
Lavery
and Sergeant Pemberton love,”
Kathleen said.

For several seconds nothing happened, then slowly the rocking ceased and
Anna lifted her eyes. They looked completely empty. “I know who they are,” she
said.

Helen spoke gently, “Anna, you’ve had quite a shock. Can we get you some
water or something?”

“No, thank you.” She blinked.

 
“I’m going to need to ask you some
questions. Is that OK?”

“More questions. All everyone does is ask questions.” She started to
shake her head. “Asking questions won’t bring Ross back.”

Helen’s eyes flicked sideways at the package, then back to Anna. “May I
take a look?”

A glint of life appeared to return to Anna’s face. “Why?”

“Anna, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

She looked away and seemed to be churning over this comment. Finally she
looked back, blinked again and nodded silently.

“Thank you,” Helen said, as she pulled the green, powdered, latex gloves
out of her pocket and stretched them over her hands, then lifted the packaging,
turning it over slowly. The lack of postage and postmark confirmed Edward’s
theory that it had been hand delivered. Then she picked up the piece of
shriveled material which was secured in a plastic bag, the bag sticking to its
contents. It felt surprising stiff and slightly wrinkled in places. However,
despite the wrinkles Helen could clearly see an outline, about three inches in
diameter, which looked like a figure of eight, staring back at her.

“Anna?” she asked, placing the contents back on the outer packaging. “Have
you seen this before?” She pointed it at the tattoo.

“It’s Ross’,” muttered Anna, almost underneath her breath.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Anna looked up at her, and all her years of interviewing suspects,
victims, witnesses, left Helen in no doubt that she was sure of her answer.

“Definitely. It’s from the top of his right arm. The sign of infinity. He
had it done in college, on a whim. He’s regretted it ever since. He keeps it
covered up these days. She swallowed and pointed. “Look, you can still see the
scar from his bike crash last year.”

Helen reached back for the bag and looked more closely at the piece of
skin. Sure enough a faint, pink line could be seen across the centre of the
tattoo. “Anna,” she said as calmly as she could, “We are going to need to take
this away to be examined. Is that OK?”

Anna didn’t reply for some time. Silence filled the kitchen. All eyes
were on an oblivious Anna who was staring into space. When she finally spoke up
her voice croaked, “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet
Helen’s.

“We don’t know that,” Helen said. “All we know is that we need to find
him urgently. Are you sure you can’t think of anywhere he might be, any other
friends, acquaintances even, that he may have visited?”

“Nothing.” Anna shook her head. Her body started to rock again, almost of
its own volition. “Nothing,” she repeated. “I’ve been racking my brains.” She
continued to stare at the detective when she suddenly froze, a light appearing
in her eyes. But it wasn’t a bright shining light, more opaque, as if frosted
in fear. “They’re taking them down one by one, aren’t they?”

Helen frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Whoever is doing this to me? They’re taking them out - people close to
me - one by one.”

“Anna, we don’t know that,” replied Helen in a desperate attempt to reassure
her.

“Yes they are,” said Anna staring at her wide eyed. “I’m the only link to
each of these incidents. And sooner or later they’re going to come looking for
me . . .”

*
* *

Helen tossed
and turned that night. Thoughts of the investigation kept seeping into her
mind. It was known that serial killers sometimes liked to remove something from
their victim, like a keepsake, a trophy. But a piece of tattooed skin? And why
send it to Anna? It didn’t make sense.

 
She had also read that serial
killers often adopted a pattern to their killings, knots being tied in the same
way, or victims being arranged in a certain manner. However, research suggested
that some violent criminals had a higher than average IQ, enabling them to
adapt their behavior to lessen the chance of being caught. Maybe the skinning
wasn’t for a trophy. Maybe it was for another purpose?
Maybe it was to scare the hell out of his ultimate victim?

Helen shifted again. She could feel the blood pulsing through her veins.
The previous evening had been manic: the fire, Ross’ disappearance, the removal
of his tattoo, all represented a turning point. Her investigation had stepped
up a gear. She now knew that these crimes were not only linked but calculated
incidents. And Anna was right, she was the direct link between the two. She
needed to protect Anna and find Ross fast.

Personal protection was no mean feat and certainly not something which
was easy to instigate. Since the introduction of the Human Rights Act, police
officers had to demonstrate they had reasonable grounds to believe a person’s
safety was in danger and obtain their full agreement, otherwise it was an
invasion of their rights. Usually used as part of a witness protection program
it was also very expensive, meant lots of paperwork and authorization at the
highest levels.

After her conversation with Anna, Helen had left Pemberton to take a full
statement and gone out into the Cottrell’s cold back garden. She needed time to
think. She was starting to understand why her father had called the role of
Senior Investigating Officer on a murder enquiry the most responsible and
important job in the police force. This was a judgment call and she knew that
the decisions she made at this moment could make the difference between life
and death.

Her immediate priority was to protect the
Cottrells
.
If she was right and the killer was someone known to the family, then sooner or
later they would have to surface. Once resolved on this, she finally reached
for her phone and called Superintendent Jenkins. She couldn’t authorize
protection at this level, bureaucracy demanded his stripes behind her.

He had sounded irritated at first, the noise in the background betraying
that he was out in public. She guessed maybe in a restaurant with friends. But
once updated, he had proved surprisingly helpful. He agreed to allocate a
Family Liaison Officer to spend as much time as possible with the
Cottrells
in their home over the next few days, a specially
trained police officer who would provide a dual role by supporting the family,
updating them on developments in the case
and
support the investigation by asking questions and observing behavior, feeding
back any information which may drive the investigation forward. Although she
didn’t think of the
Cottrells
as direct suspects, it
was always possible that one of them may be involved in some small way. With a
police officer close by at all times they may pick up on something, one little
comment that may lead them to the killer. Helen’s thoughts lay mainly on
Kathleen who appeared to be the most unstable of the three.