Death Bed (15 page)

H
aving traced the car in which Jessica Palmer had travelled - or been transported - Geraldine hoped they were finally on the track of her killer. When she arrived at the station the next morning, the atmosphere in the Major Incident Room was buoyant. Several officers she barely knew congratulated her on the successful turn the investigation had taken.

‘It’s far from over yet,’ she replied. ‘It was simply luck we came across the star pendant so quickly.’

Cautiously, she shared their optimism and was privately pleased with herself for having noticed it was missing, and sent round a message to look out for it.

The detective chief inspector was less effusive. He summoned her to his office where his praise for her efficient detective work was brisk.

‘Now we have something to go on it’s imperative we sort this out quickly,’ he told her. ‘The papers have started going to town saying we have a twenty-first century Jack the Ripper on our hands and all that bollocks. We can’t afford to let this go on much longer without a result. I’m not having a high profile failure on my patch.’

He glared at her as though she was personally responsible for the killer remaining at large.

‘Is that why you want to find the killer?’ she asked, put out by his belligerent manner. ‘To stop the papers criticising us?’

‘Of course not,’ he snapped. ‘But we need to get a result soon. Here in the Met we’re expected to work at a faster pace than you’ve been used to. I expect you’re already discovering it’s not like the home counties here.’

Geraldine didn’t answer but she thought she understood where the blame would rest if they didn’t find the killer. It seemed the detective chief inspector wasn’t the only one fighting to protect his reputation.

‘What do you expect?’ she imagined Reg defending himself to the borough commander. ‘I’m sent some inexperienced county DI, wet behind the ears, who thinks she’s still operating in a Kent backwater. I do what I can, sir, but a murder investigation is a team effort and a team is only as strong as its weakest member. I didn’t have the right team behind me.’

Geraldine frowned. For all the excitement in the Incident Room, the lead had taken them from a villain who worked for a car theft gang, past a burnt-out heap of twisted metal to an electrician who had forgotten to post his paperwork to the DVLA after selling his car.

There was a timid knock on Geraldine’s door soon after she had settled back to work.

‘Yes?’

She smiled encouragement at the young female constable peering anxiously round the door.

‘I don’t know if this is important, ma’am. I wasn’t sure whether to come and tell you straight away or not bother you - ’

‘What is it?’

The constable took a deep breath.

‘Kentish Town have transferred a call here from a woman who phoned to report that a man offered her a lift yesterday evening and I thought you might want to speak to her as he was a stranger, or shall I - ’

‘Put her through, constable.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

Ten minutes later Geraldine knocked on Reg Milton’s door to tell him a young woman had been approached by an unknown man on Sunday evening in Kentish Town.

‘A woman called Jill Duncan was out on her own, waiting on the corner of a street for her boyfriend. They’d had a row and she’d flounced out of the house without her keys or phone. While she was waiting for the boyfriend to come after her, a driver stopped to offer her a lift.’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you think we should follow it up? A strange man attempting to pick a woman up on the street, in the area where the killer’s operating - ’

‘Kentish Town?’

‘It’s not far away. It could be him.’

Reg Milton looked pensive.

‘We can’t go around pointing the finger of suspicion at every man who chances his luck with a woman. Think about it, Geraldine. The woman who phoned in was approached while she was hanging around on a street corner. What was she wearing?’

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,’ Geraldine snapped, although she knew very well what he meant. ‘And even supposing he took her for a prostitute, that doesn’t mean the man who approached her isn’t the one we’re after.’

Reg seemed inclined to agree until he discovered the woman was white and sober at the time of the approach. Geraldine argued that wasn’t necessarily significant.

‘She was a young woman out on her own in the area we know our killer’s operating in. It fits his pattern. He wasn’t to know she wasn’t drunk.’

The detective chief inspector gave an abrupt nod.

‘Let’s assume for a moment you’re right. Was this witness able to give us any information? Did she get the car registration number?’

‘No.’

‘Or identify the make of car?’

‘No. Only that it was dark, possibly black.’

‘And was she able to describe the man?’

‘Not really. She said he was tallish, but he was wearing a hood and she didn’t really get a look at his face. And he told her he was a police officer but there’s no record anywhere of the incident. I checked.’

A dark flush spread across Reg Milton’s face.

‘Are you telling me you think the killer is one of us?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘What exactly are you saying then?’

Geraldine hesitated, sensing the detective chief inspector’s suppressed fury.

‘If the killer’s impersonating an officer, if he’s using fake ID – well, it could be a lead - ’

‘A lead?’

He glared contemptuously.

‘Has it really not occurred to you that anyone can mug up fake ID, enough to fool women who are drunk or high on drugs, at night, in the dark?’ he demanded. ‘Even supposing this woman had a lucky escape from the man who killed Palmer and Henry, how does that move us forward when she can’t tell us anything about him?’

He passed his hand across his face in a weary gesture.

‘Well, go ahead if you want to, have her in, question her if you think it’s worth your time, see if she knows anything useful. But don’t bring this report to me again unless the woman has something specific to tell us. We need to find the killer, not write a bloody book about where he might or might not be carrying on. Speculation, Geraldine. It’s all speculation when we should be looking for hard facts. And you’re to keep any suggestion of the killer calling himself a police officer strictly between us.’

‘But - ’

‘You know how people talk. If this gets out, the rumour might spread that we suspect the killer’s one of our colleagues, and anything like that is only going to undermine morale. The case is tough enough, with the black community accusing us of institutional racism, without adding to our problems. So, not a word to anyone else. Is that understood?’

He paused.

‘That’s a direct order, Geraldine.’

Geraldine understood that the detective chief inspector couldn’t allow suspicion to threaten the team spirit of the investigation. Nevertheless she felt uneasy at his readiness to conceal a report that might help alert the public to the killer’s methods.

The detective chief inspector’s suppression of information played on her mind as she sat in her office with Sam, going through everything Douggie Hopkins and William Kingsley had told them.

‘Do you think William Kingsley’s information is reliable? He was a bit vague, wasn’t he?’

‘He was trying to be helpful,’ Sam said.

‘Someone trying to be helpful is no use to us at all. If anything it tends to make witness accounts less reliable. What we want is clear dispassionate facts. What else do we know about the killer?’

‘He has a driving licence.’

‘How many times have you been told not to go jumping to conclusions?’

Geraldine paused, distracted by her earlier conversation with the detective chief inspector. She couldn’t discuss her disquiet after her senior officer had specifically forbidden her to tell anyone the killer might be impersonating a police officer. Her earlier mood of optimism had faded, and the intermittent ringing of phones and buzz of voices passing along the corridor outside her room wasn’t helping her concentration. But she felt guilty about venting her irritation on Sam.

‘Let’s go for a coffee,’ she suggested and was relieved when Sam returned her smile.

Seated in the canteen Geraldine continued thinking aloud. As she talked, Sam leaned forward as though eager to hear every word, and Geraldine warmed to her young colleague. Years of experience weren’t the only consideration. Sam Haley was a decent human being, acute with people, and not afraid to voice an opinion or admit when she was wrong. She didn’t want to crack the case just to further her personal reputation and advance her own career. Like Geraldine, she was committed to the principle of justice, in this case seeking justice for two dead women. It was too late to do anything to help them, but their murderer must not be allowed to go unpunished – or to claim any more victims. Until he was caught, nothing else mattered.

‘There are too many unknowns about Robert Stafford’s movements,’ Geraldine went on. ‘Let’s approach it from a different angle and think about the victims. We have two bodies, both now identified. They appear to be totally unconnected. Even if they lived within a few miles of each other, that’s a long way in London. They came from completely different backgrounds and their lifestyles were poles apart. Jessica lived from week to week, barely surviving on what she earned from the massage parlour.’

‘The place ought to be shut down. It makes my blood boil when I hear about young women being exploited like that. And for what? Because no woman in her right mind would willingly go near some stinking filthy bastard of a man like Robert Stafford who - ’

‘Yes, it’s shocking,’ Geraldine interrupted Sam’s invective, ‘but we’re not working for the vice squad and they were all consenting adults.’

Sam scowled at Geraldine.

‘Now please, let’s focus on the investigation. Donna was from a wealthy family. She’d bought an expensive flat in one of the most sought after areas in London. As far as we can tell, the two women’s paths never crossed. Donna never visited the massage parlour. Neither of the victims was associated with any religious group or organisation where they might have come across one another and we can’t find anything to suggest they ever met. Let’s assume we don’t know the killer’s identity. It might’ve been Stafford, but then again it might not have been, so let’s keep our minds open to any possibility. Did the killer know both of his victims independently and target those specific women, or were they picked at random off the street, in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

She stopped to drink her coffee. Sam waited.

‘We know they were both last seen getting smashed in different areas of North London. They both staggered outside and weren’t seen again. It looks like they were just easy prey to someone roaming streets, in which case it could be chance they were both black and in their twenties. But why would they get in his car with him? Jessica might well have been perfectly willing to be picked up on the street, but would Donna have got into a car with a stranger?’

‘I agree Jessica would have been easy to pick up even if the killer wasn’t Robert Stafford – although we don’t yet know it wasn’t him. But as for Donna, well I suppose she might have got in a car with a stranger if she was drunk enough, and it probably wasn’t just alcohol.’

Geraldine nodded.

‘You’re right, it wasn’t just alcohol. I was going to tell you, we had the tox report about an hour ago. I take it you haven’t seen it yet? There were traces of coke in Donna’s blood, and cannabis, so she could have been completely off her trolley when she left the bar, with no idea where she was.’

‘So it’s quite likely a well-dressed, well-spoken man might have enticed her into his car, perhaps with some cock and bull story that he knew her, or was a good Samaritan going to take her home.’

‘He definitely sounds the sort to appeal to Donna, with a high class accent and BMW,’ Geraldine agreed.

She nearly told Sam that the killer was posing as a police officer, but Reg had been adamant that she mustn’t share that information with anyone. Reluctantly she decided to keep that to herself for now.

‘Whoever he was, he must have spun some credible story to lure them into his car,’ she said lamely.

‘Whether he was the genuine article, or just Robert Stafford playing the part, he must have seemed like he was reeking of money, the sick bastard.’

‘So where did he take them?’

‘Yes, where?’ Sam echoed.

‘And what’s he doing now? Should we be warning young women not to get picked up by men they don’t know?’

‘Come on, Geraldine, kids of five know that much. There’s no point warning girls about what’s already been drummed into them, if they then go out and get so off their faces that they don’t know what they’re doing. No amount of warning’s going to make any difference to them then.’

Geraldine stared at her empty coffee cup.

‘It looks as though he’s taken two women in two weeks.’

She looked up at Sam.

‘There’s every chance he’ll strike again, and all we can do is sit around hoping we find him first.’

‘He’ll make a mistake sooner or later.’

Geraldine shook her head.

‘The trouble is, I’m not sure he will. He’s got this all worked out. He knows we’re looking for him – it’s all over the papers – but he’s more than one step ahead of us. He knows the area and he knows who to target. He’s cunning, Sam, and clever. We don’t know how long he’s been getting away with this. Does that sound like Robert Stafford to you?’

‘Whoever it is, we’ll get him,’ Sam said between clenched teeth.

Geraldine wondered if her sergeant was really convinced of that.

S
ince a second body had been found, the case had taken on a more urgent momentum and Reg Milton had called on the services of a profiler. He introduced them to a smiling young woman dressed in a flowing floor-length skirt and a multi-coloured pashmina. With her mass of long curly hair and heavily made-up eyes, Geraldine thought she looked like an art teacher.

‘I’ve worked with Jayne before.’

The detective chief inspector beamed as the profiler looked around, careful to make eye contact with everyone.

‘The question we need to ask is why is this man acting in this way?’ Jayne asked.

‘Killing people, you mean?’ someone called out.

‘And amputating limbs,’ another voice muttered.

Geraldine found herself struggling to focus on what the profiler was saying. Her voice was gentle and reassuring, but she didn’t impress Geraldine as having much intellectual rigour. The fact that both victims were black shouldn’t have made any difference to the investigation, although of course it put them all under additional pressure from the media. Alienated sections of the population were quick to exploit the case to rack up hostility towards the police, which didn’t help in their efforts to gather information. But the murder investigation team had to continue with their work regardless.

‘The victims were both chained by the wrists and ankles. This is a killer who wants to control his victims,’ Jayne went on. Geraldine did her best to master her impatience as the profiler stated the obvious, speaking very slowly and in such a low voice that Geraldine found herself straining to catch the words.

‘Do you think he’s likely to kill again?’ the detective chief inspector asked.

The profiler considered for a moment, her curly head lowered, before concluding that seemed likely.

‘It’s possible the killer may be compulsive.’

‘You mean we’re dealing with a serial killer?’ the press officer asked. No one spoke for a few seconds.

At last the profiler replied.

‘It’s difficult to say.’

‘Anyway, we know he’s killed at least twice,’ Reg said. ‘No one outside the investigating team knew that the two victims’ injuries were virtually identical until the details came out in the papers after the second murder, so this wasn’t a copycat killing.’

Geraldine frowned, realising that the detective chief inspector had agreed with her analysis all along. She understood why he would argue against her theory, making sure her case was watertight, but it irked her that he didn’t acknowledge her work. A forceful character, effective in managing resources, he was hardly a team player. That accusation that had been levelled against her in the past, but at least she had never presented someone else’s ideas as her own.

‘The press have got hold of it now, but what happened to Jessica wasn’t public knowledge before Donna Henry was killed,’ he explained before turning back to Jayne.

‘Both bodies were found close to each other, so he’s likely to be operating in an area where he feels comfortable. And is it a coincidence the victims are both black?’ the profiler asked.

‘Would that question be raised if they were both white?’ a black constable demanded.

‘I was only wondering if we are dealing with a hate crime,’ Jayne replied.

‘Against blacks or against women?’ the constable snapped.

‘Anything’s possible,’ the detective chief inspector stepped in. ‘We don’t know anything about the killer so we can’t form any firm conclusions about his motive yet.’

Geraldine strained to control her irritation at this nebulous discussion which wasn’t helping the investigation.

‘Can you tell us anything about the killer that we don’t already know?’ she challenged the profiler.

‘I suspect he’s taken the teeth as trophies because he’s pleased with the success of his attacks and that may be why he wants to keep souvenirs of his victims. It may also be significant that he’s removed the same teeth each time. The dismemberment seems to be escalating, from a finger to half a limb, which suggests he’s likely to kill again.’

‘Yes, we’d figured that out,’ Geraldine muttered. ‘This is merely speculating,’ she added more loudly.

‘That’s all we can do until you come up with something more concrete,’ Jayne replied evenly.

‘Well, I still think Stafford’s our man,’ Sam interrupted.

‘If Jayne thinks he’s likely to kill again then we’re looking for a pattern. We know Stafford was a member of the National Front and both the victims were black.’

‘Their colour might not be significant,’ Geraldine argued. ‘Maybe the pattern is that both women were in the wrong place at the wrong time, too drunk to sense they were in danger until it was too late.’

A heated discussion followed a male officer’s suggestion that the two women had placed themselves in danger. Sam made no attempt to restrain her fury.

‘So you’re saying women shouldn’t go out after dark? A female curfew, would that do it? Is this just for women who’ve been drinking, or are you suggesting women shouldn’t be allowed out on the streets at all? Perhaps you’d like to chain us all up?’

‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ the detective chief inspector interrupted her sharply. ‘This kind of infighting isn’t helping. We’re all frustrated at making such slow progress, no one more so than me, but we’re agreed we need to gather more information. So let’s all work together as a team and see what else we can find out. Thank you for your insights, Jayne.’

Geraldine was worried about the report from Kentish Town but didn’t dare take it further without the detective chief inspector’s authorization. She approached Reg after the meeting.

‘At the very least we should run a check on CCTV, see what cars were in the area at the time of the encounter, and conduct house to house enquiries along the street. There’s no need to even mention the idea the killer might be using fake ID.’

She hoped it was false, for all their sakes. The thought that the killer might really be a police officer was too terrible to contemplate.

Reg brushed her concerns aside.

‘Useful informants are difficult to spot among the host of attention-seeking cranks and time wasters, with so many people claiming to have seen the killer.’

Geraldine pointed out that Jill Duncan hadn’t even mentioned the killer. When the detective chief inspector insisted they didn’t have sufficient manpower to pursue the matter she couldn’t control her frustration any longer.

‘How can we not have the resources? This is a murder enquiry - ’

‘And I’m in charge. Or had you forgotten that?’

He turned on his heel and strode away.

‘What was all that about with you and the DCI?’ Sam asked Geraldine when they were back in the relative privacy of her office.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Well he looked damned stroppy to me. Do you think he’s crumbling under the pressure?’

‘No, I’m sure he’ll be fine. His sort always are.’

Sam looked at her inquisitively but didn’t comment, asking instead what Geraldine thought of the profiler.

‘I’ll take your psychological insights over hers any day,’ Geraldine answered, and was surprised to see the sergeant’s face light up in genuine pleasure.