Cut Short (31 page)

  'We'd appreciate your co-operation, sir.'

  'Might I ask what this is about?' the doctor asked.

  'We need to know as much as we can about your patient—' Geraldine began.

  'It's a murder investigation,' Peterson interrupted bluntly. The doctor glanced at the DS, suddenly apprehensive.

  'We know he's a paranoid schizophrenic,' Geraldine resumed, 'on medication since 1984. We know he moved to Woolsmarsh and became your patient in the late eighties, and was transferred from injections to tablets two years ago.'

  'You seem to know a lot about him already.'

  'It's not enough.' The doctor frowned at the urgency in Geraldine's voice. 'We need to know everything about him. We're investigating a triple murder.' She stared at the doctor who returned her gaze levelly. 'We're looking for a serial killer.'

  'And you think my patient might be the man you're looking for? Your serial killer?' he asked slowly. His voice didn't waver, but Geraldine saw his eyes widen in alarm. She inclined her head.

  'Since you've indicated this is a matter of serious concern to public safety,' the doctor said gravely, 'I'm prepared to give you whatever information I can, Inspector. I can't advise you, but I will pass on what I know.' The doctor turned to his computer. 'Jim Curtis is prescribed anti psychotic medication, administered orally, as you say, for the past two years. He goes to a specialist unit every six months where his treatment's monitored. Drugs are tapered off under supervision and the dosage adjusted as necessary. He's due for a psychiatric assessment in three weeks.' He paused. 'He should be back here before then.'

  Geraldine sat forward. 'When did you last see him?'

  The doctor glanced at his screen before he replied. 'You seem to know …' he began.

  'When did you last see him?' Geraldine repeated.

  'He sees the practice nurse once a month.'

  'The nurse?'

  'Yes. To collect his prescription. He doesn't use our normal procedure for repeat prescriptions. We have a box in reception and some of our elderly patients have an arrangement with the local chemist who collects the prescriptions on their behalf. We like some of our patients to come to the surgery in person. Jim Curtis falls into that category. He's what we'd consider vulnerable—'

  'When did Curtis last come in to collect his prescription?' Geraldine interrupted.

  Dr Callum checked his screen. 'Three weeks ago. On Wednesday, 12.'

  'Supposing he didn't take his medication. What if he took his prescription, went to the chemist and collected the pills as usual, but didn't take them. What would happen?' Geraldine asked. The doctor raised his eyes to meet hers but didn't reply. 'Might he suffer delusions?' The doctor shrugged. 'Could he become violent?' The doctor still declined to answer.

  'We're trying to find him,' Peterson said brusquely. 'Do you have any idea where he might be?'

  Dr Callum shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I assume he's not at his current address?'

  'Could he be the serial killer we're looking for?' Geraldine asked, her voice suddenly rough with impatience. 'And if so, is he likely to attack again?' She heard the urgency in her own voice but the doctor merely shrugged and refused to give an opinion.

  'In these circumstances I can only supply you with the facts. I'm not an expert witness, Inspector. You'd need to approach his psychiatrist for an opinion on his mental state.' He paused then looked straight at Geraldine and added carefully that it was impossible to predict the behaviour of a delusional paranoid schizophrenic. Geraldine nodded. She understood. Jim Curtis was at liberty. He'd already killed three women and, in his current state of mind, would probably feel the urge to kill again. He might already be closing in on his next victim even as she sat with his GP, solemnly discussing that very possibility.

53

Contacts

Heather Spencer reminded herself that her pupils' belligerence wasn't personal. Sometimes she took a step back and tried to view herself through their eyes: a strident, bad tempered old woman, wasting their time with her boring drivel. This morning, she was struggling through poetic imagery with them. It was like ploughing rocks (simile).

  'Ow Miss, he flicked paper at me!' The outcry provoked boisterous laughter. The aggrieved boy clutched his neck and stared at her in exaggerated outrage.

  'Miss, he jacked my pen.'

  'I need a black pen.'

  'Miss, can I ask Joe for his ink eraser?'

  'No you can't, prick.'

  Heather ignored the unconscious metaphor and continued with her lesson. 'Can anyone find an example of a metaphor in the poem?' she asked. They were beginning to settle down and even appeared attentive for a few minutes. 'Look at line seven,' she suggested.

  'What page are we on, Miss?'

  'Page 102. Line seven. What do you notice?'

  'It comes after line six, Miss?' someone called out, to an accompaniment of tittering.

  Heather tried again. 'Brandon? What do you think?'

  'What was the question, Miss?'

  She forced herself to hide her irritation. 'Page 102. What do you notice in line seven? And please don't tell us it comes after line six. Remember we're looking at metaphors. It's on your sheet from last week. And it's on the board,' she added before the boy could complain he didn't have a sheet. 'So, Brandon, can you find anything to comment on in line seven?'

  Brandon studied the page seriously before replying. 'It comes before line eight, Miss?' The class hooted with laughter. Heather smiled, seething. Once she lost her temper, she knew that would be it for the rest of the lesson. Game over.

  'Homework diaries out, please,' prompted a predictable chorus.

  'Miss, I got no homework diary.'

  'Mine's at home.'

  'I lost my homework diary, Miss.'

  'I can't find my homework diary.'

  'It's not homework tonight, Miss.'

  'I'm not doing homework. It's a joke, innit?''

  At last the bell shrilled joyous release. Heather was set free for coffee and biscuits and civilised adult conversation.

  'Bloody year nine,' she grumbled amiably to a colleague who grunted in sympathy.

  There were the usual national curriculum-endorsed leaflets and brochures in her pigeonhole: Shakespeare Made Easy, Spelling Made Easy, Everything Made Easy. If teaching was easy, why was it so bloody hard? Among the commercial promotions she saw an envelope addressed to her in hand written capitals. Hoping it wasn't a complaint from an irate parent, she ripped it open and gaped. She folded the letter quickly and replaced it in the envelope. Controlling her voice with an effort she asked the staff room secretary for an A4 envelope.

  'You OK?' the secretary asked, 'you're as white as a sheet.' Simile, Heather thought automatically, cliché.

  'Fine.' Carefully holding the letter by one corner, she

dropped it into the larger envelope and hurried away. Her hands shook as she fumbled in her handbag for the card the detective inspector had given her. Relieved that she'd kept it with her, she dialled the number. The telephone rang three times before the inspector herself answered, her voice business-like.

  'DI Geraldine Steel.' Her tone softened when Heather introduced herself. There was a pause. Heather didn't trust herself to speak straight away.

  'Have you remembered something else?' the inspector prompted her.

  'I received a letter,' she blurted out, 'an anonymous letter.' She glanced around nervously, checking she was still alone in the staff toilets.

  'Ah,' the inspector said. 'And do you think it might be from the man you saw in the park?'

  Heather recited the horrible note verbatim. She'd only glimpsed the short message once but could recall it word for word. She didn't think she'd ever be able to forget it. She explained how she'd placed the letter in an envelope, to preserve any fingerprints.

  'That's excellent, Mrs Spencer. Now, how soon can you bring it in to us?' Heather was still shaking when she hung up. After school, she handed the A4 envelope in at the police station and went home.

  That evening the telephone rang and Heather froze. 'Don't be silly,' she told herself, watching her hands trembling in her lap.

  'Get that, can't you?' William called, rustling his news paper in irritation. Heather breathed deeply as she heard her sister's cheerful voice on the line.

  'Heather, how's it going?' Heather was grateful it was a rhetorical question. 'We've finally got our roof finished and, guess what?' Dee continued. After a lengthy diatribe against roofers in general and her own roofers in particular, Dee said she was calling to confirm a dinner arrangement for Saturday.

  Heather's heart sank at the prospect of an evening of forced conviviality. William would sit taciturn, or else discuss sport with the other men, a dull drone at the far end of the table. Heather imagined the conversation at her end of the table.

  'What's your news, Heather?'

  'Oh, same old same old, although I do have one piece of news: I received a death threat this week. But don't worry, the police are dealing with it. It's just some maniac who goes around strangling women. You probably read about it in the papers. They call him the Woolsmarsh Strangler. Well, it seems he's chosen me as his next victim.'

  'Thank God for you and William,' Dee gushed, before Heather had a chance to conjure up an excuse. 'Jeanie and Michael can't come, which is a shame, she's such good company. But Mandy and Phil are coming. I don't think you've met them. He's a teacher too – history or something – so you'll have a lot in common.'

  'Sounds lovely. We're looking forward to it,' Heather lied feebly. William glanced up from the sports pages. She covered the handset and mouthed, 'Dee … Saturday …' William nodded and retreated behind his paper again.

  'I think it's our turn to invite them,' he muttered from behind his paper after she hung up. Heather shrugged. She couldn't be bothered to get drawn into that discussion again. Dee enjoyed entertaining. Heather didn't. She looked over at William, and hesitated. She knew that she ought to mention her visit to the police and now this business with the threatening letter.

  'William …' she began and stopped. She couldn't think what to say. Dull middle-aged schoolteachers didn't get themselves involved with serial killers. In any case, the police were taking care of it. There was no point in worrying William when his father was deteriorating and becoming difficult. 'I'm going upstairs,' she said, 'for a bath.' William grunted and turned the page.

  Heather always felt better after washing her hair. Only two days to go until the weekend, she told herself, but the thought didn't brighten her up.

  William looked up from his paper as she went downstairs again. 'You all right, love?' he asked unexpectedly as Heather sat down.

  She started. 'Why d'you ask that?'

  'You look a bit peaky,' he said, and at that she almost broke down and told him everything, but he turned back to his paper and the moment passed. She didn't want to make a fuss. It was better not to worry him. She settled down to her knitting, and the quiet of her domestic life.

54

Information

The Incident Room was a maelstrom of activity. Charts and rotas were pinned up on the wall beside the Incident Board, files and photos covered every available horizontal surface, another computer had been installed, and a table had been set up for two more clerical staff to help with the phones, which rang incessantly. Geraldine was energised by the commotion, everyone focused on the same goal.

  'There's a girl here to see you, ma'am. Her father says she's got something important to tell you.' With a frown, Geraldine put down the statement she was reading. She had so many case files out, she couldn't stack them all on her desk so she'd made two further piles of documents on the floor below her desk. It was difficult getting in and out without knocking over one of her precarious towers of paper and card.

  'Who is she?'

  'Her name's Shema Malik. Says she was with Jacqueline Ross when she left the party in Queen Street last Friday.'

  'Yes,' Geraldine interrupted, already on her feet. 'I know when it was. Where is she?' She kicked over some files and swore as she bent down to restack them.

  Summoning Peterson, she hurried to the interview room where Shema Malik sat huddled in a chair beside a stout man with a shiny bald pate.

  'I am Shema's father,' he explained, nodding as though his head was on a spring. Geraldine introduced herself and the DS. 'My daughter has something she wishes to tell you.' Mr Malik spoke with an easy formality, but his eyes were guarded. The girl stared at the floor.

  'I understand you've remembered something about last Friday night? Would you mind if we taped what you have to tell us? It would help,' Geraldine prompted her. The girl gave no sign she'd heard the question.

  'Go on, Shema,' her father encouraged her. 'It's all right. She doesn't object to the tape. She wants to help,' he insisted. Shema raised her head. She looked frightened. She spoke in a low monotone so Geraldine had to strain to catch the words. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Peterson leaning forward in his chair.

  'I went to Ella's party,' she began. She hesitated and looked up at her father who nodded again.

  'It's all right,' he coaxed. 'Now tell the police what you told me. Tell them, Shema.'

  The girl took a deep breath. 'I left Ella's party at nine. I'd promised to be home for nine so I had to call my father and I couldn't get a signal on my phone. I left my blazer behind because … because I couldn't find it.' She began to cry, her chest heaving with shallow sobs. Geraldine waited patiently while Mr Malik patted his daughter's hand. After a moment the girl stopped weeping and resumed her narrative. 'Rusty came after me with my blazer.'