Cut Short (35 page)

62

Alarm

Geraldine was summoned by Kathryn Gordon. She stepped over the files surrounding her desk and made her way to the DCI's office where she knocked, careful to wait before opening the door.

  'Ron Rogers has been on the phone. His daughter's been attacked. She managed to escape. It sounds like Curtis.' She nodded at Geraldine. 'Go and talk to her. Take DS Peterson.'

  'Right away, ma'am.' Geraldine hurried from the room.

  They set off for the Rogers' estate. Peterson started to say something, then stopped.

  'What is it?' Geraldine asked.

  'Nothing.'

  She frowned. 'If you've got something to say, I'd rather you came out with it. I suppose you've been waiting for me to apologise for having a go at you the other day. All right, I'll apologise, if you want, but bear in mind we are working on a particularly difficult case. Everyone's stressed. You shouldn't take it personally.' She looked away, aware that she hadn't actually apologised, and unsure if she wanted to continue the discussion while they were both so edgy.

  Peterson shrugged. 'I'd forgotten about it,' he replied. 'How's your new washing machine?' he added unexpectedly. Geraldine was taken aback. 'Delivered 27th September, the day after you moved in.' There was a pause. Geraldine hesitated, uncertain where this was heading. 'You never mentioned it to anyone.'

  'My washing machine? Why would I mention it? It's a washing machine.'

  'One of the delivery men was called Arthur Ramsden,' Peterson went on. He leaned forward speaking in a low voice so she could barely hear him above the whine of the engine. 'Arthur's got a brother, Norman Ramsden. Went down for armed robbery. Arresting officer, DS Geraldine Steel. Not long before your promotion to DI.'

  Geraldine opened her mouth to protest, but Peterson went on. 'Thing is, gov, a few days after your washing machine was delivered, someone graffitied the fence at your flats. A week after the delivery, the same graffiti appeared on your garage door. Five days later, the lock on your garage door was smashed and your car was scratched.'

  'How the hell do you know that?' She raised her voice in surprise.

  'Jesus, gov, I am a detective! Give me some credit.'

  Geraldine smiled in spite of her alarm. 'What are you going to do, now you know?' she asked. It was a relief to share her problem, but she was worried about the consequences if Peterson reported her trouble. She imagined him, busy on her trail. He might even have called her last station to check the background, giving some story that he was phoning on her behalf. Once he had Ramsden's name and had worked out his connection to Geraldine, it would have been easy enough to find out that Arthur Ramsden had delivered her washing machine. Easy enough for someone with the wit and the will to uncover the truth. What bothered Geraldine was the sergeant's motive.

  'Why didn't you report it?' he asked.

  'You know perfectly well why. They might've started fussing about special protection measures. The DCI would've complained about distractions. I might even have been moved, taken off the case.'

  'So instead you decided to risk your own safety.' He sounded angry.

  'I can take care of myself.' She was riled. 'If I'd thought I was in any real danger—'

  'You're not,' he interrupted shortly. 'Not any more.'

  Geraldine glanced at him but he turned away from her. 'What have you done?' she asked. Suspicion shook her. He'd reported the situation to Kathryn Gordon.

  'I paid a visit,' Peterson replied.

  'To the DCI?'

  'No.' He looked round at her, surprised. 'To Arthur Ramsden—'

  'You did
what
?'

  'I simply pointed out that any disruption to your work would be considered wilful obstruction of a murder investigation. He won't be bothering you again, gov.'

  'So what did the DCI have to say?' she fumed.

  'Why? Did you tell her?'

  Geraldine took a deep breath. 'Taking a bit of risk there yourself, Sergeant,' she said. Gratitude swept through her so strongly she struggled for breath. 'Thank you,' she muttered ungraciously. 'Not that I needed you to step in like that,' she added quickly.

  'Of course not.'

  'I was sorting it out myself. I didn't need your help.' She fell silent, aware that she sounded petulant. She looked up again. This time Peterson grinned straight at her and she looked away, irritated. He'd behaved like a thug, warning Ramsden off with threats. It was hardly professional. 'In future, I advise you to stay well away from things that are none of your business.' But she couldn't deny she was glad he'd done it.

  'In future?' he asked, with a quizzical expression. Geraldine opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it. They travelled the rest of the way in frosty silence.

  Lynda and Melanie Rogers were sitting side by side on a leather sofa, holding hands. Even though Melanie's eyes were swollen from crying, the resemblance between the two women was striking. Peterson was staring at Melanie Rogers as though he hoped to see an image of her attacker reflected in the girl's eyes. A housekeeper set down a silver tray with an elegant tea set.

  'Thank you, Nora. Can you take some tea and hot toast in to Ron before you go? Don't worry about us, we'll sort ourselves out later.' Lynda Rogers turned to Geraldine. 'My husband can join us if you like, but he was rather upset. We all thought Melanie could talk more freely without him in the room.'

  Geraldine thanked her before speaking to Melanie. 'Tell us exactly what happened.' It had to be him: hands held behind her back, a palm slapped across her mouth, her lower jaw and wrists bruised from rough contact. Melanie Rogers described how she'd been walking to her car when she'd been attacked and dragged into an alley.

  'He grabbed my arms, here, and then got both my wrists into one of his hands, and he put his other hand over my mouth. It happened so quickly I didn't even call out. His hand was over my mouth before I realised what was happening. I was too shocked to react at first. By the time I tried to struggle, he was holding me so tightly, I could hardly move. I thought he was going to twist my head off.' Geraldine saw Lynda tighten her grip on her daughter's hand. 'It's all right, mum, I'm OK,' Melanie said. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance charged with emotion.

  'Go on,' Geraldine urged.

  Melanie stared straight ahead, concentrating. 'He got me fast and twisted my head round. It was dark. He pulled me over towards the street lamp so he could see me. And then he let me go.' There was a pause. 'Mum had put a rape alarm in my pocket. She's obsessed with them. She keeps a cupboard full of them and slips them in all my coat pockets.' She gave a half-hearted smile.

  'It's just that with a serial killer about …' Lynda Rogers said softly.

  'Don't apologise for being careful, Mrs Rogers. You probably saved your daughter's life—'

  'No,' Melanie interrupted, 'it wasn't like that. I put the alarm on
after
he let me go. My hands weren't free till then. He just let go of me. He looked at me, and then he let me go.' The girl was bruised and battered, still in shock, but lucid. 'And his voice was funny. A kind of whispery lisp.' She frowned, biting her lip.

  Geraldine looked up from her note taking. 'He spoke to you?' Melanie nodded. 'What did he say?'

  'That was funny too. He said, 'I didn't know it was you,' when he saw my face. And then he let me go. I pushed him away and got out the rape alarm. I was yelling for all I was worth by then and what with the alarm and me screaming there was a hell of a racket. He just ran.'

  Geraldine stared closely at the girl. 'Think carefully, Melanie. Had you ever seen him before?'

  'I don't think so.'

  Geraldine took a copy of the e-fit from her wallet. 'Melanie, I want you to look carefully at this artist's impression of a man called Jim Curtis. Was this the same man that attacked you tonight?'

  Melanie shrugged. 'It could be. It's hard to say. He had a beard.'

  'You're not sure?' The girl nodded uncertainly. 'But you'd be able to identify him if you saw him again?'

  'I don't know. That's the thing. I saw him looking at me, but I only got this impression of a hairy face. It was hideous. Like something out of a werewolf movie.' She gave a shaky laugh.

  'Would you recognise him if you saw him again?' Geraldine repeated the question.

  Melanie began to cry quietly. 'I don't know. I just don't know. He smelt disgusting. Like an old dog.'

  'Don't cry,' Lynda said softly. 'It's over now. They're going.' She looked at Geraldine, a silent entreaty in her brilliant green eyes. Peterson closed his notebook.

  As soon as they were in the car, Geraldine was on the phone. 'We're on our way back. I want her clothes examined as a priority so stand by. And if SOCOs haven't put the whole scene under a microscope by now, I'll want to know why. I want their report in ten minutes … An interim report then, as far as they've got. We need to work quickly … Yes, that's right. We'll see you in five minutes.' She turned to Peterson. 'We'll drop her clothes off, report to the DCI and then take a look at the alley.' The initial stages were crucial in any investigation, before evidence could be contaminated, but there was another reason to move swiftly in their search. Jim Curtis had already attacked two women that night without success. Frustrated in his attempts, he was bound to try again. While the police were scouring the streets, he was out there, stalking his next victim. And the next woman might not escape.

  'Funny thing about Melanie Rogers,' Geraldine said as they drove towards the station. 'Mrs Lewis at the B & B told me he had a picture of her.'

  'What sort of picture?' Peterson asked.

  'Just a picture torn out of a newspaper.'

  'You mean he was interested in her?' Peterson asked. Geraldine shrugged. 'I didn't know it was you,' he repeated. 'Do you think he was looking for her all along?'

'I wonder what he meant when he said 'I didn't know it was you.'' Lynda gazed anxiously at her daughter, lying stretched out on the sofa, her head on her mother's lap. 'They said their suspect was called Jim. I wonder. It was all so long ago.'

  'What was?'

  'Before my career took off, I used to help out in Gina's unit,' Lynda said. Melanie nodded. Her Aunt Gina had worked in a special school for years. 'I thought I could be useful. I wasn't, of course. I was a complete disaster.'

  Melanie raised herself up on one elbow. 'What was it like?'

  'You want the truth?' Melanie nodded and her mother grinned. 'It was awful. I wasn't much use at all. I think they would've asked me to leave, only they were too nice, and too short staffed.'

  Melanie pulled herself upright. 'What was wrong with the children?'

  'Oh, all sorts. I didn't really understand much about it. The teachers were very strict with the children and I think I let the side down, trying to be nice. I thought it was the right thing to do.'

  'I bet the children liked you.'

  Lynda frowned. 'There
was
this one little boy who took a shine to me. I don't think he had any family of his own. No one who took any interest in him, anyway.'

  'Except you.'

  'Yes. I became a sort of a mother figure to him, I suppose. He used to follow me around everywhere.'

  'That's sweet.'

  'No, it was awful. And weird. He became obsessed with me. He thought I was an angel and he remembered everything I said to him. When he couldn't see me, he'd climb up on a chair and shout my name. He called me Miss L.C. because he'd read my initials on a bag and I told him that was clever. He wasn't clever, of course, he was slow, and he had a speech impediment.'

  'Miss L.C.,' Mel repeated, laughing. 'I bet you liked him following you round, like a little puppy.'

  'No, it wasn't like that. He was vicious, and very possessive. He nearly killed one of the other children when I admired her drawing. He wasn't small, and he was incredibly strong. He lifted her up bodily, and she wasn't slight. He was going to hurl her through the window. Luckily there were three teachers in the room and they managed to restrain him.'

  'My God.'

  'It wasn't his fault,' Lynda went on. 'He was disturbed. But I think he got away with a lot too. The other children were always complaining that he hurt them when the teachers weren't looking. It was difficult to get to the truth of it. Then my career took off and I never went back. Only I remember his name was Jim and I wonder … No, that's ridiculous. It's a common enough name, and it was all so long ago.'

  'How come you never told me about him before?'

  'Oh, I haven't thought about it in years. It's not important.'

63

Vigil

Jim Curtis hadn't returned to his shed. The search continued throughout the night. They couldn't sit at the station typing up reports and there was no question of going home, so Geraldine and Peterson went back to Mortimer Street. They parked round the corner and received clearance to enter the site. Although she knew the suspect wasn't in the area, Geraldine felt a tremor of anticipation as they approached the abandoned property. She imagined Curtis was there, already handcuffed, ready to be driven to the station. He must have returned by now. Perhaps her phone wasn't working, or the team at the shed wanted to surprise them.

  'We got him, ma'am,' she mouthed to herself, as though thinking the words might make them come true. The place looked deserted as they hurried across the front garden and crept into the passageway but Geraldine knew officers were in position all around them, out of sight. As she emerged into the back garden, Peterson at her heels, a dark silhouette acknowledged them.

  'Any news, Constable?' Geraldine asked softly.