Cut Short (18 page)

  They drove back in silence to Kings Close, parked in the same spot as before and tried next door. A stale smell wafted out as a young woman opened the door. She was holding a baby with dirty smudges on its cheeks.

  'Yeah? Whadya want?' Geraldine showed her warrant card and explained they needed to speak to Mrs May. The neighbour barely glanced at the card. Instead she stepped back, glaring at them.

  'Whadya want?' Mrs May was known to her neighbours only as 'Tiffany's mum'. 'Oh her. Why didn't you say? Who's he then?' Peterson displayed his ID card, which the woman scrutinised with an exaggerated show of suspicion. 'Dunno about him,' she said finally. Geraldine gave her a sharp warning about obstructing the police in their enquiries and the woman capitulated. 'Only being careful of our Tiffany's mum.' She gave an aggrieved sniff. 'No need to get so fucking shirty.' She sloped off down the hallway, grumbling to herself, and returned with a Yale key dangling from a greasy piece of string. 'Here,' she said, tossing it at Geraldine, 'and mind you bring it back.' Slam. They heard the baby bawling. As they turned away, its cries stopped abruptly.

  Geraldine opened the front door and peered cautiously into the semi-darkness.

  'Mrs May?' Silence. The narrow hallway stank of vinegar and body odour. Geraldine almost gagged when she breathed in. Empty crisp packets littered the floor. Chewing gum and cigarette stubs had been trodden into threadbare carpet. The sitting room was strewn with magazines, several clearly labelled 'School Library' and 'Doctor's Surgery' and 'DO NOT REMOVE'. Glamorous figures smiled up from the covers, mocking the squalor around them. In the tiny kitchen a clutter of soiled plates and half empty cups covered every surface. Empty pizza boxes were piled along one wall, next to a bin overflowing with greasy newspaper, chips, ketchup and tea bags. 'Hope we never have to search this lot,' she muttered.

  They found Tiffany's mother lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. At first Geraldine thought she was unconscious. A bluebottle darted round and round in a crazy configuration, the only sign of life in the room.

  'Mrs May?' There was no response, then the woman blinked. Her head moved and she looked past Geraldine blankly. Her mouth opened. As if it was all too much effort, she resumed staring at the cracked ceiling. Her mouth closed slowly. She showed no curiosity about her visitors. Geraldine waved her ID card without prompting any reaction. Speaking slowly and clearly, so there could be no mistaking her meaning, Geraldine explained that Tiffany was dead.

  'I'm so sorry for your loss, but I'm afraid Tiffany won't be coming back here any more.' The woman didn't move. Tentatively, Gerry reached out and touched the fingers bunched on top of a grubby pink blanket. They were cold. As the woman inched her hand away, Geraldine wished she could be anywhere else but here, in this gloomy room. They would alert social services. There was nothing more they could do for Tiffany's mother.

  On the way back to the station, Peterson wondered if there might be a connection between Angela Waters and Tiffany May. Geraldine doubted there was anything to link the two victims.

  'They grew up in different places, weren't the same age, lived in different areas of town, and had different tastes and friends. Where could they have come across one another?'

  'But think about it, gov. Why these two women in particular, when it could've been anyone?' Geraldine rather thought that was the point, but she considered the possibilities with him anyway.

  'I'm nothing if not open minded,' she said and was pleased out of all proportion when the DS agreed.

  They both knew that if there was nothing to connect the two victims it meant the killer was striking at random, making his movements virtually impossible to predict, or track. Back at the station, they explored the idea. Geraldine jotted down a list as they spoke: young, long fair hair, alone in the park.

  'What about the rain? Could that be a trigger for him?' Peterson suggested.

  'He has to strike when there's no one else around. The park's not going to be so busy when it's raining.'

  'Long fair hair,' Peterson read out. 'He likes long fair hair.'

  Geraldine nodded. 'We ought to make sure that's stressed in the press release,' she said. 'The hair and the rain. Sarah, can you see that's added, suitably worded.'

  Sarah Mellor nodded. 'Shall I run it past the DCI?'

  'Yes,' Geraldine replied.

  'Women with long fair hair shouldn't walk in the rain,' Peterson said lightly and Mellor slapped him playfully on the arm. Geraldine was taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture and annoyed with herself for noticing.

  Geraldine left Peterson following his hunch; she was afraid the only link between the two victims was that they had been alone when they encountered the killer.

  'That's two bodies in a week,' the DCI had fumed in the early morning briefing. 'Why the sudden hurry? What's triggered it?' Everyone listening shared her sense of urgency. The killer had struck twice in quick succession. The spectre of a third victim hung in the air.

31

Mellor

Geraldine left Peterson searching for a possible link between the two victims. Crouched over a keyboard, he looked very different to the dapper young officer she'd met on her arrival at Woolsmarsh police station only a week before. He'd removed his jacket; her glance took in armpits stained with sweat, a crumpled shirt and slipping tie, tousled hair and eyes shadowy with fatigue. Geraldine and DC Mellor drove in silence to the school where Mrs Rutherford had compiled a short list of Tiffany's friends: Holly Denning, Amy James, and Patrick Purvis.

  'We don't know anything about her relationship with Patrick,' the head teacher said, 'but the girls have told us he was Tiffany's boyfriend. He denies it, of course, but I thought you'd want to have a word with him. You can use my office. There isn't anywhere else. The deputy's accompanying the children.' Geraldine thanked the head teacher who led them to her office and then rushed away to deal with her daily round of petty crises.

  The deputy brought the children in one by one.

  'Will we be on telly?' each of the girls asked on entering the room. They must have been discussing the question while they were waiting. Cynical about adult vice, Geraldine found their youthful narcissism depressing. Neither of the two girls appeared to be upset. They had plenty to say about Tiffany, but their comments were irrelevant or incomprehensible. Tiffany May hadn't been popular, even with those who claimed to have been her friends.

  'She stinks,' one of the girls said haughtily, pursing glossy lips. Both girls mentioned Pat and giggled.

  Geraldine felt awkward quizzing the boy. He looked about ten. The deputy head, a mealy mouthed woman, sat watching stony faced.

  'Was Tiffany your girlfriend?' Geraldine began, smiling encouragement. The boy looked at her blankly. He didn't answer. 'Do you know why Tiffany went to the park on Monday?' she asked him directly. The boy shook his head, eyes suddenly wary. A fierce blush tinged his cheeks. Geraldine glanced at Mellor. The DC had seen the boy's reaction and was making a note. 'Were you meeting her there? It's very important you tell us,' Geraldine urged. The boy mumbled something unintelligible about Tiffany wanting to.

  'It's all right, you haven't done anything wrong,' Geraldine said gently, but the boy flatly refused to say any more and was taken away.

  'Looks like she went to the park to meet that boy,' Geraldine said to Mellor as they trudged across the dismal schoolyard.

  'Sad,' the constable replied. 'Resorting to that for a boyfriend.'

  'Not exactly a boyfriend. They're only thirteen.'

  'Old enough.'

  'And her mother …' Geraldine sighed. 'She'd been caring for her mother since she was eight.'

  'It's not like she had a choice.'

  They drove off in silence. Geraldine wondered how she'd react if she were ever called on to care for someone. Being godmother to Chloe was a formality. If anything happened to Celia and Sebastian, Geraldine wouldn't have a clue what to do with her niece. She'd grown used to her own routine. Spending her working life in the service of her fellow man, since Mark had walked out on her she'd grown used to thinking only of herself in private. A glorious, bitter freedom. Sometimes she thought it was lucky she and Mark hadn't had children. But a child would have changed every thing.

  'Maybe Peterson's come across something,' Mellor suggested brightly as they drew into the station car park.

  'Maybe,' Geraldine answered, remembering a time when she herself had been young and optimistic.

32

Rogers

As soon as Geraldine caught sight of Peterson's face she knew he hadn't come up with anything new.

  'Nothing so far, gov.'

  'Nothing at all?' Geraldine realised she'd been clinging to the faint hope that he would find something to connect the two victims and give a clue to the identity of the killer.

  He shook his head. 'Only that they both walked through Lyceum Park, on different days at different times, and were strangled there in the bushes. Apart from that, I've found nothing in common. My guess is, they must have met the killer in the park.'

  'Have you gone right back?' she asked. 'What about school?'

  'Angela Waters lived up North until two years ago, remember? She only came down here after she met John Drew in Blackpool. He was on holiday there and she was working in some sort of men's club. He brought her back here, gave her somewhere to live and a better life.' His bitterness was almost palpable.

  'What about the café? Did Tiffany ever go there?'

  'I checked. Umberto said he doesn't encourage school children. It's not that sort of place. And Tiffany May was hardly the sort of girl to go out for coffee and pastries. She wouldn't have had the money. Neither he nor the waitress recognised her picture.'

  'What about a hairdresser?' Geraldine knew she sounded desperate. Tiffany May had probably never seen the inside of a salon. 'There's still some work to be done on it, but let's leave the rest of the cross checking to Sarah,' she said at last. 'Now, let's see what the young gardener was up to on Wednesday morning, when he wasn't at work.'

  Peterson nodded, brightening up. 'Here's hoping he hasn't got an alibi and falls apart when we pull him in for questioning,' he said breezily, his good humour restored. He liked to be out and about, not stuck behind a desk. Geraldine shared his need to be doing something.

  Peterson rang a bell on imposing wrought iron and gold gates. A bronze sign announced the name: PARADISE. A buzzer sounded and a voice challenged them to state their names and display their passes for the entry camera. A moment later the gates swung soundlessly open and they drove up a climbing tree lined avenue that led to Ron Rogers' palatial house. To their left they glimpsed tennis courts behind massive rhododendrons and azaleas as they drove up the sweep of the drive. Rounding a bend, they caught their first glimpse of a red brick building. It looked like an exclusive country house hotel.

  Geraldine had read all she could about Ron Rogers. He'd been a big name in the music industry in his youth. He'd long since given up performing, but not before amassing a huge personal fortune. His wedding to an international fashion model had been a media circus, earning the couple the predictable nickname, 'Beauty and the Beast'. They retired from the limelight in the 1980s, hoping to bring their daughter up away from the paparazzi, but in a backwater like Woolsmarsh they'd inevitably become celebrities in the area. The local press seized on anything Ron Rogers did and often reported on his daughter's activities too: her outings to London and her fashion faux pas. There was a picture of blonde Melanie Rogers on the file, in a shiny ball gown: a pretty twenty-one-year-old seeing a man of whom her father disapproved. Geraldine felt a little envious.

  Wealthy people aspired to live close to Ron Rogers' estate. The surrounding area was on the route of regular police patrols and there were numerous security systems in place on the property itself. Ron Rogers had electronic gates in his high fences, security lights, cameras, and guards with dogs. The property was defended like a fortress to protect his magnificent art treasures and his wife's jewellery collection. The Rogers hosted fabulous events attended by an assortment of household names. Geraldine scanned the list of media personalities, pop singers and film stars who visited them. No wonder the local constabulary patrolled the area conscientiously. It was a target for professional burglars and the slightest hint of trouble on Ron Rogers' estate would throw the media into a frenzy.

  Peterson parked beside a beautiful carved fountain: a tall figure of Neptune holding a trident, surrounded by mermaids. Water streamed from shells they held out to him. In the distance they could see a golf course as they ascended a wide stone stairway to the double front door. They were ushered into an oak panelled hallway lit by concealed lamps. Ron Rogers came down a broad staircase to meet them. He was a tall man, round shouldered and lean. He wore his thinning hair long, tied in a ponytail. Geraldine had never met him before, but his ravaged face was familiar.

  'Inspector?' He extended a huge hand in welcome. 'How can I help you?'

  'We'd like to speak to Melanie.'

  Ron Rogers' convivial smile drooped. 'She's with her boyfriend. I've got the address here somewhere if you'd like to wait a moment. Somewhere in East Woolsmarsh.'

  'Do you know the name Terence Tillotson?' Geraldine asked.

  'Melanie's seeing a young bloke she calls Terry. I've only met him once. I'm afraid I don't know his other name. I can tell you that he works in a park.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Is this Terry in some sort of trouble? I'd be very grateful if you could keep my daughter's name out of any embarrassment. You know she's not like most young people. Any story's all over the papers like a rash.' He gave an apologetic smile. Geraldine assured him that, as far as they knew, Terence Tillotson wasn't involved in any illegal activity. She wasn't sure whether Ron Rogers looked pleased or not.