Frozen (11 page)

He stared at her. ‘Delva Lobelo's pervert is our AB killer?'

She hesitated, not wanting to answer directly. ‘The first thing that made me link this pervert to Tina Jackson's killer was the way the woman in the photo was lying,' she said. ‘The arms were twisted in a really unnatural way: as if someone had handcuffed her to the bed while she was lying on her front, then turned her over onto her back. Then I noticed this tiny stain in the corner of the picture. I didn't say anything to Delva, obviously, but I'm almost certain it's semen.'

Megan flipped the plastic wallet over, revealing the front of the envelope. ‘This was hand-delivered. It's got her name and BTV's address on but there's no stamp or postmark. Like I said before, looks like it's someone who works there.'

Leverton pulled the plastic wallet towards him, peering at the writing on the envelope.

‘The thing is,' Megan went on, ‘no one can get in or out of that building without being logged by the guards on the front or back desks. Unless they've got an appointment with someone they won't get any further than that.'

Leverton's gaze flicked from the envelope to Megan's eyes, a look of amazement on his face. ‘So you think that the guy who killed Tina Jackson works at BTV?'

She hesitated. She needed to play this very carefully. ‘Well, I'd certainly say there was a connection, wouldn't you?'

Before he could reply there was a knock at the door. A uniformed officer delivered gloves, tweezers and an official scenes-of-crime evidence bag. Leverton donned the gloves and picked up the tweezers. He opened the wallet and prised out the envelope.

Megan studied his face as he drew the photograph from the envelope with the tweezers.

‘My God!' Leverton shook his head as he took in the image of the naked woman on the bed. ‘You're right! He's twisted her round for the photograph, hasn't he?'

‘There's no other explanation for it.'

‘Not that I can think of.' He moved the image closer to his face. ‘That's part of the handcuffs!'

‘Could be, couldn't it?'

‘Where's this semen trace you spotted?' Megan stood up and walked round to Leverton's chair. Leaning over his shoulder she pointed to the small blob in the bottom right-hand corner. Leverton moved the photo slightly, catching the light.

‘Oh yes! I see what you mean!' He turned it over, angling the matt white side of the photo to the light with the tweezers. ‘Look at that!' Suddenly Megan could see an even larger patch of the same crystalline substance she had spotted on the image of the woman.

‘Right!' Leverton slid the photograph back into the envelope. ‘We need to get this DNA-tested as quickly as possible. In the meantime, though, I need to speak to Miss Lobelo. Does anyone at BTV know she's given you this photo?'

‘I shouldn't think so. Why?'

‘Well if the bloke who's been sending her these letters really is our AB man we need to tread very carefully. We certainly don't want him to know the police have been called in.'

Megan nodded. ‘As far as I know she hasn't told anyone about my involvement. I suppose quite a few people know that we've been working together on a documentary but there's no reason why anyone should think she's talked to me about the letters.' She paused, frowning.

‘What?'

‘That uniformed officer you said you were going to send round – better call him off.'

‘Oh, right.' Leverton shifted in his seat.

Bastard, Megan thought, he's done sod all about it.

‘Could you give Miss Lobelo a bell now and ask if I can call in on her as soon as she gets home?' He pushed the phone across the desk.

Yes, sir – three bags full, sir.
Megan dialed the BTV switchboard. She could hear the hubbub of the newsroom as the woman on reception put her through.

‘Delva, it's Megan. Can you talk without being overheard?'

Delva paused for a moment before replying. ‘No, not really. Hang on a minute…'

Megan waited while she transferred the call to another room. Delva sounded out of breath when she picked up the phone.

‘Sorry about that. I had to put it through to one of the editing suites – it's the only place I know I won't be disturbed. What's happened?'

‘Detective Superintendent Leverton wants to talk to you about the letters but it's important that nobody at BTV knows the police are involved. When will you be home?'

‘I don't finish until 10.45 tonight, but I might be able to nip out for half an hour after the teatime news.'

‘So what time would you get home – about 7.30?'

Megan looked across at Leverton, who nodded.

‘Yes. Is that okay?' The relief in Delva's voice was obvious. Poor thing, Megan thought. It's taken something of this magnitude to get the police to take her seriously. Before she could reply, Delva spoke again. ‘Megan, there's something else. I was about to phone you.'

‘Not another photo?' Megan exchanged glances with Leverton.

‘No, it's a letter. He wants to meet me.'

‘What!'

Delva's voice was shaking again as she spoke. ‘He's asking me to meet him at a wine bar in town tomorrow night.'

Leverton was looking quizzically at Megan and she scribbled the gist of what Delva had said on his notepad while continuing the conversation. ‘Don't worry, Delva. Just bring the letter home with you tonight and the police will work out how to handle it, okay?'

‘Well, what do you make of that?' Leverton said as Megan put down the phone.

Megan tried to think, but there were too many possibilities. ‘I don't know. It's got to be some kind of trick. I mean, surely he's not stupid enough to actually turn up?'

‘I should say the odds are against it. If he was an out-and-out nutter, I'd be pretty optimistic. But this guy's not your run-of-the-mill loony, is he? The kind of bloke who goes to all the trouble of keeping his paws off those letters and photos isn't going to blow it by appearing in public.'

Megan held Leverton's gaze for a split second, wondering what sort of image of the killer was forming in his mind.

‘Martin,' she said slowly, ‘there's something I need to ask you before we go any further.'

‘What is it?' He settled back in his chair.

‘In those unofficial profiles I faxed you this morning I made it fairly clear that the AB killer has some sort of connection with the police and I explained why. In the light of this new connection with BTV I'd say the most likely connection is that he's an ex-policeman, possibly someone who's left the force within the past few years. I need access to the medical records to check whether anyone fitting that description has AB type blood.'

She watched Leverton's face, wondering what his reaction would be. He sighed and fingered the corner of the plastic wallet on the desk in front of him.

‘Not possible at the moment, I'm afraid, Megan. When I got your profiles this morning, the first thing I did was to access our personnel files. I was planning a search of the entire male workforce – currently-serving officers as well as any who had left within the last five years – but apparently the disc's corrupted. Absolutely zilch on the screen. We've got someone coming in this afternoon to have a look at it.'

‘Oh…' Megan was knocked off balance. ‘Do you think it's been sabotaged?'

‘I hope not. I mean, I'm hoping that by this time tomorrow it'll be sorted. As soon as it's up and running again I'll be going through it myself and you're welcome to join me.'

‘So in the meantime,' she asked, ‘what are you going to do about Delva Lobelo?'

‘I'll try to talk her into going to the meeting place just in case.' Leverton caught the look of alarm in Megan's eyes. ‘Don't worry, we'll make sure the place is crawling with plain clothes people. Will you be able to come with me tonight when I go and see her?'

Megan said yes automatically. Then she remembered her promise to Patrick.

‘What's the matter? Is it a problem?'

‘No, I don't think so. It's just that I've arranged to pick up a friend at 8.30. We're going out for a meal. But we won't be at Delva's house long, will we?'

‘No. I won't keep her talking more than half an hour. Does she live far away, your friend?'

Megan hesitated before replying. ‘It's a he, actually. It's a work colleague who's come over from Holland. He doesn't know many people here…' Megan trailed off, wondering why she was attempting to justify her date with Patrick to Martin Leverton.

‘Hah! Just my luck! I was going to take you for a drink after we'd finished.' Leverton covered his embarrassment by laughing at himself. She mumbled something about looking in her diary when she got back to the office, but he skillfully changed the subject, asking for Delva Lobelo's address and what time Megan could meet him outside.

As she drove home Megan thought about the corrupted computer disc. It seemed too much of a coincidence that the personnel files should be wiped off on the very day those medical records needed accessing. Was it sabotage, or was Leverton simply lying?

And what about this invitation to go for a drink? What was that in aid of? As far as she knew he was still married to a policewoman who worked in the Crime Prevention Unit. There were no photographs of her in his office, or of any children they might have produced, but that didn't mean they were no longer together. Why, Megan thought to herself, did she get the impression he was being over-friendly?

She tried without success to squeeze her car into the narrow gap between two others parked outside her house. Parking in a street of terraced houses was a constant nightmare, but it was the price she and Tony had been prepared to pay for living in the beautifully-restored Victorian villa with its carved staircase and lofty ceilings.

Over the past few months she had often thought about looking for somewhere smaller. But the idea of moving house was more than she could face. The memories of her life with Tony were too newly-buried to disturb.

Megan wished she could go to sleep and wake up to find Christmas had come and gone. The only thing that made it bearable was the thought of retreating to the cottage at Borth on Boxing Day. Away from all the fake bonhomie of the festive season she would curl up in front of a log fire on New Year's Eve.

Her brother was talking about joining her but she was rather hoping he would change his mind. Gareth would probably insist on dragging her to the local pub to drink into the early hours with distant relatives of Granny Rhys. Much as she loved him she was determined to avoid his misguided attempts to cheer her up.

As she took off her coat, she glanced at the shells. ‘Idiot!' she said aloud, cross with herself for even thinking about it. They were exactly as she had left them. She stood still for a moment, suddenly aware of a noise coming from upstairs. A scraping noise, like fingernails on glass. She crept up the stairs, her heart thumping. It was coming from her bedroom. She pushed open the door and snapped on the light. Nothing. Her bed, still unmade. Yesterday's clothes piled on the chair. Curtains still drawn. Everything as she had left it. She put her hand to her head. Was she going mad? Hearing things? No – there it was again. Behind the curtains. She bounded across the room and threw them open. The window was open and flapping in the wind, the leafless branches of a tree scraping the glass.

Megan pulled it shut and fastened the catch. She was certain she hadn't opened it last night. Not with it being so cold. She shivered. Had she done it in her sleep?

She went to make a hot drink. As she walked into the kitchen she noticed the pile of unwritten Christmas cards sitting accusingly on the table. She looked at the clock. Three hours to go before she was due at Delva's. She made a pact with herself to write as many cards as she could in the next hour-and-a-half and then take a long soak in the bath as a reward.

She sat down at the kitchen table and tried to concentrate on the cards. She wondered how Ceri was getting on at the hospital with Joe, wishing she was allowed to visit them. She hoped Neil would phone soon. She had forgotten to tell him she was going out this evening.

Suddenly, images of Neil flashed unbidden into her mind: Neil taking that photograph; Neil sending those letters. After all, she thought, he once counted a rapist among his friends. What might he be capable of?

‘Don't be stupid!' she said aloud. Of course it was stupid. Neil might not be the perfect husband but she had never seen him do anything that could be described as violent. He didn't even believe in smacking children. And yet – a nagging voice inside her head reminded her of the facts: Neil's age: 32; his marriage under considerable strain with the suggestion of an extramarital affair; works at BTV in the same office as Delva Lobelo …

She told herself over and over again that it couldn't be him. But the tiny voice tormented her with a litany of names:
Ted Bundy; John Cannan; Jeremy Bamber; Denis Nilsen…
All charming, persuasive men, just like Neil Richardson.

Megan took the phone with her when she went upstairs for her bath. Still unable to relax, she lay in the warm, foamy water. When her mobile rang she jumped, sending water surging over the sides of the bath.

‘Megan – it's Neil. I just called to tell you how Joe is.'

‘Is everything all right?'

‘Yes, he's doing fine. I can't talk for long – I've only just got back from the hospital and Emily's starving. I'm going to have to feed her before I do anything else.'

‘Oh, yes, of course you must. Listen, I've got to go out later. Will you call me in the morning?'

‘Yes, of course. Have a good night!'

Megan put the phone down with a sense of shame. How could she have thought ill of Neil while he was rushing backwards and forwards from the hospital and doing his level best to care for his daughter single-handed?