Cut Short (11 page)

  Heather tried to picture him in her mind: around forty, tall and muscular. 'He was wearing a baggy grey jacket so I couldn't see his build clearly. It's just an impression. I don't know why, but he seemed – energised, somehow. When I spoke to him he sort of jumped back, like I'd startled him. And he stared at my lips when I was speaking, not at my eyes. That was when I wondered if he might be deaf. Although he seemed to be listening to me. It was odd. As though he couldn't quite understand what I was saying. Or didn't like my talking to him.' The sergeant asked if he had any distinguishing features. 'Oh dear, I'm not very good with faces. He had funny eyes, I think.'

  'Funny?'

  Heather sighed. 'I'm sorry. I wasn't really paying much attention. But there was one thing that might help. He had a scar just above his top lip. It looked as though it had been split open in a fight a long time ago, or perhaps he'd had an operation on it.' The sergeant looked up from his notebook. 'I'm afraid that's all I can remember. Do you think it was the man you're looking for?'

  'It's a possibility.'

  'That's what I thought. I wish I could remember more about him. I didn't look too closely, I'm afraid. I wasn't paying him much attention.'

  'Of course not. Why would you? You've been very helpful, Mrs Spencer.' The inspector gave her a card and asked her to be sure to call if she remembered anything else. Then the sergeant took her to see an E-Fit Officer who patiently attempted to reproduce the face of the man Heather had seen in the park, but Heather could only really picture a scar and peculiar eyes.

  'Does that look more like it?' the officer asked each time she adjusted the image.

  Heather shrugged and apologised. 'I'm sorry,' she kept repeating, 'I really can't remember what he looked like.' All she could recall was that he made her feel uneasy, and that wasn't something that she could define in a picture.

19

Review

Geraldine stared at the e-fit until the image went blurry. She picked it up and held it at arm's length then replaced it on her desk. Shaking her head, she pulled her notebook out of her bag. She'd never believed John Drew was guilty and Heather Spencer's statement seemed to confirm her reservations about him. Reading what she'd written about him, she put a question mark by John Drew's name and added to her notes.

WITNESS Heather Spencer TIME 9.45? odd

watching lips – deaf? foreign? funny eyes

scar – top lip, vertical, old fight?
About 40? Muscular?
E-fit – too vague?

She put her pencil down and sighed. Too many question marks.

  Heather Spencer was a credible witness. It was a pity she didn't have better visual recall of the man she'd passed in the park. Geraldine followed up the leads from her description, searching for a man with a scar on his top lip. If it was a relatively recent injury, and he was local, she hoped they'd be able to trace him quickly, although she knew it was a slim chance. The local hospitals were co-operative, but it turned out to be a predictably wild goose chase. They widened the search but she knew it could take months. Even if they succeeded in tracking down the man Heather Spencer had seen in the park, he might have nothing to do with Angela Waters' murder.

  'Can you describe the nature of the injury? Where exactly was the scar? How old was it? Was the injury sustained in a fight? Could it have been due to a congenital abnormality?' The hospital administrators spoke rapidly, rushing the constables through a list of questions.

  The impression that the man in the park hadn't understood Heather Spencer suggested he might be a foreigner. Perhaps he was just passing through the area, leaving a gruesome calling card. Geraldine frowned at her notes, rejecting the idea that they might never identify this murderer who had slipped away, leaving no clues. Something was buzzing in her brain, a feeling she'd seen or heard something that might help lead them to the killer, if she could only remember what it was.

  Closing her eyes to clear her head, she saw a pale thin form lying on a mortuary table, imagined Angela's terror, silenced by a hand slapped over her mouth, her helplessness at being dragged off her feet, the dread she must have experienced at the end. Thinking about the victim's history of abuse, Geraldine was consumed by a rage to discover who had committed the final atrocity. Nothing could restore Angela Waters' chance of a better life, but at least her killer could be punished. There had to be some justice for Angela.

  As she sifted through her memory, the DCI came to fetch her for a meeting with the press. None of Angela Waters' family were available to join them for an appeal so they weren't being televised. Nevertheless, it was a daunting prospect. Geraldine nervously patted her hair in place.

  'Ready, ma'am.'

  'The nationals are here,' the DCI said. They were all pleased at the coverage. The more publicity they generated, the more co-operation they could expect from the public. Geraldine thought of the tapes she'd been forced to sit through. No doubt there'd be plenty more spurious calls and misinformation. But, somehow, they would find him. If there was a chance an appeal through the newspapers might produce results, she was glad to do it. She'd read through endless statements and listen willingly to any number of tapes, if it helped. She owed it to that silent figure in the mortuary. Gritting her teeth, she marched into the briefing room.

  The press conference passed in a blur.

  'What are the police doing to find Angela Waters' killer?'

  'We're doing everything we can,' Kathryn Gordon assured them. 'We're leaving no stone unturned.'

  Geraldine remembered playing on a pebble beach as a child, lifting up stone after stone looking for crabs. She'd never found one. She felt like that child on the beach now, hunting through numerous documents. Somewhere there had to be a clue to the killer's identity, if they could only find it. But there was so much information to search through. She kept up her resolve and stayed at the station for hours after her shift ended, reading through reports and witness statements.

  She arrived back at her flat that evening too tired to cook. As she was scavenging in the kitchen, her sister phoned.

  'You're always busy,' Celia complained when Geraldine said she had no time to chat. Geraldine tried to explain the demands of her work. 'You could at least get a girl in to clean, once a week,' her sister suggested. 'That would save you a bit of time, and it's not as if you can't afford it.'

  'Great idea. I'll make sure I'm always here at the right time to let the cleaner in, shall I?' Geraldine snapped. 'Or maybe you'd like me to give a key to some stranger?' She regretted her answer immediately. Her sister was only trying to be helpful. 'I'm sorry. It's just that I've got a lot on right now. I'll call you soon.' She hung up, opened her briefcase and pulled out the files she'd brought home. The memory of that small pale figure in the mortuary wouldn't let her relax. Over a solitary supper of cheese and crackers, she settled down to work.

20

Melanie

He'd only met the boy once, but Ron was suspicious of his daughter Melanie's new boyfriend.

  'You assume everyone's after your money. This Terry probably doesn't even know who you are,' Lynda protested. They both knew that was unlikely. Ron Rogers had been a huge rock star in his youth and still made frequent appearances on television. His ravaged features were familiar from award ceremonies and charity events on both sides of the Atlantic along with his wife, former international fashion model, Lynda Clare.

  'He knows who I am,' Ron retorted testily. 'His eyes were on stalks all the time he was here.'

  'It's not like she's planning to marry him,' Lynda said, dismissing her husband's concerns. 'It's just a fling. She'll soon get bored of him.' They lapsed into moody silence as Nora knocked and came in to announce that dinner was ready.

  Nora liked to have everything perfect for Mr Rogers and his wife. He'd given up his music career years ago, but Nora still remembered Ron Rogers in his heyday. She'd been a devoted fan, buying all his records. She'd even seen him live in concert once, screaming along with all the other girls whenever he waved his electric guitar at them. Ron Rogers strode into the dining room, his wife at his heels.

  Nora couldn't help overhearing snatches of conversation at the table as she flitted in and out. She was fetching coffee from the kitchen when the front door slammed and Melanie ran in, her long blonde hair flying. She resembled her mother and would have been just as beautiful had her looks not been marred by a hint of her father's horsey features. Even so, her face was almost perfect, with her mother's striking green eyes, full lips and upturned nose. As a child, Melanie had idolised her father. He had that effect on people. Even now, with his grey hair and lined face, the effect of his presence in a room was electrifying. Nora smiled at Melanie and carried the coffee tray into the dining room.

  'I'm hopping over to Le Touquet,' Ron Rogers was saying. He pulled on his cigar.

  'That's a good idea,' Lynda nodded her golden head at her husband who waved his cigar at the coffee pot. Melanie's feet pounded across the wide hallway. Lynda glanced at her husband over the coffee pot and carried on pouring. Ron Rogers gave no sign he'd heard his daughter as Melanie flung the door open and hurried in. She sat down without an apology and looked up expectantly. Despite her furious scowl, her resemblance to her mother was remarkable.

  'Don't suppose there's any dinner?' she asked Nora, without a word to her parents.

  'Thank you, Nora,' Ron said firmly. 'You can go.' Nora dutifully withdrew.

  'But Ron,' she heard Lynda protest, 'she must be hungry.'

  'Should've been here on time, then,' came the peremptory reply. Nora retired to the kitchen. Even at that distance she could hear raised voices from the dining room. All that money, and they were never satisfied.

Melanie was seething. Her father never listened to her. He always thought he knew better than everyone else. She hated the school he'd chosen for her, and the college he'd packed her off to had felt more like a prison. Now she was a working adult, her father had to stop thinking he was running her life. She was determined to stay with Terry and prove to her father that he could no longer control her every move.

  'You don't even know him,' she fumed. 'You don't know the first thing about him. You think he's only interested in me for my money.'

  'Your money?' her father repeated. 'It's not your money, is it?'

  Melanie stared at him. 'And what exactly is that supposed to mean?'

  'Oh Melanie,' Lynda interrupted with a sigh, 'don't go upsetting your father.'

  'Terry doesn't care about your money,' Melanie insisted. 'He's an independent man. He earns his own money, not like some.' She slumped in her chair, biting her lip.

  'I'm glad to hear he's not a complete sponger. What does he do?'

  'He works in a park. It's a perfectly respectable way to earn a living. Healthy too.' She glared pointedly at her father, who had notoriously indulged in alcohol and drugs in his youth.

  'A gardener,' Ron relit his expensive cigar. 'Good for him.'

  Melanie pushed her chair back and stood up. 'You never care about what I want, do you?' she grumbled. 'Well, I'm not going to give him up just to make you happy. Why should I? What do you know about love? All you think about is money. What about my happiness?' Ron's eyes slid away from his daughter's face. He nodded at the coffee and Lynda picked up the pot. It shook slightly as she poured.

  They all knew Melanie didn't earn enough at the chic art gallery where she worked to fund her extravagant tastes. Ron picked up his coffee and gazed levelly at his daughter over the rim of his cup. His fat cigar smouldered gently in his other hand. Melanie turned to appeal to her mother but Lynda sat immobile and stared at her lap, refusing to take sides.

  'See if I care,' Melanie bleated. 'You're nothing but a bully. You think you're a big shot, but you can't buy me.'

  'I think we're done here,' Ron Rogers said evenly, indicating the table, but his eyes remained fixed on his daughter. Flicking her long blonde hair off her shoulders with a violent twist of her head, she slammed out of the room and out of the house. She roared off in her Porsche, along the empty road that led back to Terry.

21

Lakeland

The DCI wondered if Heather Spencer could have been mistaken.

  'She struck me as a reliable witness, ma'am,' Geraldine said, glancing round the room. Peterson stared at the Incident Board.

  'A reliable witness who can't remember anything,' Merton muttered.

  'The boyfriend's profile fits,' the DCI said, tapping the board, but she sounded unconvinced. John Drew had previous form. At eighteen he'd been accused of GBH but the trial had been thrown out when a key witness disappeared. Kathryn Gordon underlined the information on the board.

  'That was years ago,' Geraldine protested, 'and he wasn't found guilty.'

  'Because someone cocked up the prosecution,' Kathryn Gordon replied. She turned to Carter. 'We need to speak to the Honda manager. Find Lakeland and see if he can shed any light on Drew's whereabouts on Wednesday morning.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  No one at the Honda showroom knew where Robert Lakeland's sick mother lived and he wasn't answering his mobile phone. A constable telephoned the Honda Head Office at Swindon and established that Lakeland had left early to take his mother to a hospital appointment that afternoon. By the time the DC was connected to the right department, Robert Lakeland and his mother had left the hospital. He still wasn't answering his mobile and there was no answer at his mother's house.