Hurt (The Hurt Series) (20 page)

The Undertaker eased forward in his chair and retrieved the picture. His sharp, angular face registered no emotion as he regarded the picture with what appeared to be disinterest. Eventually the solemn eyes Jessop had once heard someone liken to a Labrador’s eyes flicked up at her. Even now, after so many years, she could not read what stirred behind those eyes. Her boss was the last person you wanted to go head to head with in a poker game.

The Undertaker placed the picture back down on his desk and eased back in his chair. ‘The absence of any forensic evidence says otherwise.’

She didn’t need reminding. Knowles and his team had found no evidence of an intruder in the boot of Darren’s car. Neither had they found any evidence among the fir trees at the bottom of Paul and Stewart’s garden, or in the couple’s clinically clean downstairs toilet. Understandably, Knowles had turned sceptical about her theory of the killer’s MO, yet she was so convinced the bastard had hidden in the small restroom she had asked for the pictures he had taken, to which he’d handed them over willingly, wishing her better luck than he’d had.

‘I showed the pictures to Stewart Nichols,’ she explained to her boss. ‘Asked him if there was anything out of place in the room. Admittedly, it took him a while to spot it.’

The Undertaker frowned. Looking unusually troubled, he reached again for the picture of the white and chrome room with nothing but a toilet, toilet roll, sink, hand soap dispenser, and white hand towel. ‘Spot what?’

‘The toilet roll. Before he went to bed that night Stewart replaced it with a new one and didn’t use it.’ Jessop motioned to the picture, to which her boss had brought closer to his eyes. ‘As you can see, the end of this one is loose, not glued down as Stewart had left it.’

‘Paul?’

‘Turned in before Stewart that night.’

‘What about during the night?’

‘If either of them needed the toilet during the night they would use the bathroom opposite their bedroom.’

‘How sure is Stewart about this?’

‘Positive. He has a thing about leaving empty rolls on the holder.’

The Undertaker swapped the photograph for his Mont Blanc pen, tapped it lightly on the photograph, pondering. ‘I’m not convinced.’

‘Neither was I until I got to thinking about why he would need the tissue. It wasn’t for its intended use, that’s for sure. He couldn’t risk disturbing his targets blowing his nose or flushing the toilet.’

‘Agreed.’

‘
Then I remembered the bloody kitchen knife he left behind at the Tanya Adams scene. Why had he left that behind, and not the weapon he’d used to kill Paul? I asked Stewart if he’d recognised the knife the killer had used. Understandably, he said that was the last thing on his mind, but he did remember it being small. So I checked the kitchen draws and found a paring knife from a set was missing. Stewart confirmed this.’

‘So why this time did he take it with him?’ The Undertaker asked.

‘Because if he’d left it behind then we’d know he’d been in the house. In Tanya’s case it was no secret he was in her flat. What was a secret, though, was how and when he’d snuck into her
block
to hide and wait.’ She paused, waiting for a reaction from her boss. After a beat too long she received one by way of a slight rub of his moustache. Drawing a breath she continued. ‘I figure he took the toilet paper to wipe the knife clean before he made his escape with it. This guy is super careful. He knows a man caught on the street with a knife is suspicious. But a man caught with a bloodied knife is guilty as hell.’

The Undertaker wrote a short sentence she was not privy to on his pad. ‘What about the Darren Spencer murder?’

‘He used a Stanley knife. Not the ideal weapon of choice for the job, but one that wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion if found on him when he was sneaking into Darren’s boot and making his escape on foot through the woods.’

The Undertaker placed his pen down on the pad and reclined back in his chair. Jessop remained bolt upright, waiting for her boss’s verdict on her theory. As well as not being able to read her boss’s eyes after all these years, she still felt anxious in his company. Of course, most people felt the same way when sitting across the desk from this quiet, solemn man. However, her anxiety was not spawned from any authority issues, or from the intimidating monochrome attire. Her unease was born from the ghost of a resemblance her boss shared with her father, the only man who could ever put her in her place. And the only man, aside from one sitting across from her, who she had ever respected.

Of course, there was another reason for her unease. Yesterday she’d bought a knife and went hunting for the man who’d killed her family’s murderer. But the quiet man opposite her could not know that, unless he had learned to read minds during these silent moments. She would not put it past him.

More silence. She squirmed as a bead of sweat trickled down the base of her neck. The Undertaker finally punctured the suffocating silence with, ‘Okay, I buy it.’

She exhaled a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. ‘Thanks.’ She stood and went to leave.

‘Catherine?’

She stopped, turned.

‘I received a call from Andrew Dodd yesterday.’

A sudden heat ignited her face. ‘Sir?’

‘Stay away. That’s an order.’

Before she could rebut, her boss’ attention had turned to his computer screen. He’d made his orders clear, and they were not up for discussion.

Not even by her.

Chapter
Forty-nine

Stood in the station car park she lit a cigarette and inhaled deep. Thought about the moment yesterday when Andy Dodd had driven passed her in his BMW before she’d gone after his brother.

Andy wasn’t stupid. He knew a copper when he saw one, especially on his estate, and especially on the day his brother was released. Probably figured she wasn’t there to welcome Vincent home with a six pack of beer, and that she was just another embittered copper with a grudge against his racist trouble-maker brother. After all, Vincent had had his fair share of run-ins with the police back in the day.

But if this was the case why not air his grievance with the Police Complaints Commission? Why go direct to the Detective Superintendent of all people?

She exhaled smoke into the cold, dusky sky.

Bill Travis wasn’t stupid, either. He, like Andy, knew she wasn’t at the Coley Flats to applaud Vincent for time well served.

He’d asked her how she’d felt about Vincent’s release on Monday. She’d said she was impartial.

She’d lied to him.

And now she’d been caught in that lie, and that felt akin to being caught by her father. The disappointment in her father’s eyes would hurt her more than any punishment he chose, for she knew she had betrayed his trust, which was something he would never ever do to her.

And now she had betrayed her boss’ trust. The man who had championed her for the job, and whose stoic belief in her would often see him relinquish his better judgment in favour of her instincts. Just as he had a minute ago.

‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

The door beside her opened and Mason appeared flipping his car keys around his thumb. ‘Didn’t know you smoked.’

Jessop shrugged. ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know.’ Like what a lying, bitter and twisted psychotic bitch I am, she thought grimly.

Mason clucked his tongue, smiled to himself. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

She turned to her DI, and only then did she see what Chloe had meant about him resembling that actor Matt Dillon. ‘Oh?’

‘I know you did a hell of a job figuring out our boy’s MO.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m not sure I could’ve.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a good cop.’

‘I had a good teacher.’ Mason scuffed the curb with his shoe. ‘You know, part of the reason I transferred here was because I wanted to work with you.’

Of all the things she’d expected to slip out from her DI’s normally tight lips this was the last. She pulled on her cigarette, said. ‘I didn’t know that, no.’

‘Yep. I followed your career. Studied your cases. Learned how you worked. Coppers don’t get much better.’

‘I suppose as long as you didn’t want to dress like me I should be flattered.’

Mason laughed, a rare reflex she was not used to from her normally sullen DI. It was nice to hear.

‘
I aint got the legs to pull off some of those skirts you used to wear back in CO14.’

Jessop glanced down at her trousers and tried to recall the last time she had the legs to pull off one of those skirts she used to wear to entice johns to the curb. Sensing a rare opportunity to dig beneath her DI’s shell, she said, ‘So you said I was
part
of the reason you transferred here. What were the other reasons?’

Mason smiled, more to himself than her. The expression was brief but long enough for Jessop to catch the flash of teeth and the tightening of his cheeks. The look was disarmingly endearing and boyish, betraying the intense ruggedness he wore so well.

And then it was gone, and the real Scott Mason was back, looking down to his shoes still toeing the curb. ‘When you come from a town where old age and boredom are the biggest killers, sooner rather than later a copper’s going to want to catch a real bad guy.’

Recalling Mason came from some sleepy coastal town she’d forgotten the name of, she understood. However, she couldn’t help wondering if at that moment he was looking to his right, accessing the creative side of his brain to tell her what she wanted to hear, or to his left, to the factual cortex, which told the truth about his motive.

Judging by his hunched posture and refusal to look at her when he spoke, she suspected the former.

‘Speaking of real bad guys,’ Mason said, swiftly changing the subject and raking a hand through his thick, short brown hair, ‘I was wondering about the Ghost’s…sorry, our killer’s pattern.’

Jessop took a drag on the cigarette, exhaled away from her DI, for whom she knew just as little about as she had five minutes ago. We all had her secrets, she supposed. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Why the break yesterday?’

‘Come again?’

‘Saturday, Spartan. Sunday, Tanya. Monday - albeit just after midnight - Darren. Yesterday, no one. Today Paul. Why skip a day?’

What with her mind being elsewhere yesterday she hadn’t thought about this. But Mason obviously had, and he had a damn good point.

He said, ‘Maybe what with Randal’s face being all over the news our boy knew Randal was our prime suspect and that he was on the run. So he broke his agenda to keep us thinking we had the right man.’

‘Right,’ she mused, her mind grinding back into gear.

‘That’s pretty ballsy for someone who’s planned his kills so far in advance.’

That was exactly what she was now thinking. The killer had eluded them so far because of his meticulous planning and thorough prior knowledge of his victims’ daily movements. And so far it was working perfectly for him.

‘So why do it?’ Mason queried, vocalising the question that had popped into her head. ‘Why take such an unnecessary risk?

She took a final drag on her smoke and flicked the butt onto the curb. ‘To show us he can.’

‘You think he’s getting cocky?’

‘Uh-huh. And cocky gets you caught.’ Especially by coppers as good as Mason, she thought. Secrets or not.

Chapter
Fifty

Cocky gets you caught.

He liked that. Catchy.

Catchy and so very true.

Cocky had gotten the killer of Jessop’s family caught. Malcolm Hoyt was cocky and sloppy that day thirty-six years ago. The day that would haunt his adversary to the day she died.

Of course, that was why fate had brought him here.

The twisted irony brought a smile to his lips.

He patted his pocket, in which was folded the sheet of kitchen towel. Olly would be proud of him.

Chapter
Fifty-one

Back home, Jessop found Chloe lying on the sofa listening to her iPod with her face hidden by a Celeb gossip mag’. The open fire crackled and danced, whilst in the corner of the warm, cosy room the TV was on with the volume turned down.

The home comforts made her feel slightly better about herself. All she needed now was to wrap her arms around her beautiful daughter, pull her close and nuzzle her soft blonde hair like she used to. To smell that Chloe smell, a smell that would make all the horrible things go away and remind her there was still some good left in a world that was so often bad.

She flicked Chloe’s toe and watched her startle. The earphones were detached and the magazine put down.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself,’ Chloe grumbled.

‘Good day?’

‘Usual.’

After last night’s joviality Chloe was back to her usual sullen self, which meant a cuddle was probably out of the question.

Jessop dumped her bag and kicked off her shoes. ‘You joining us for dinner? Ray’s spaghetti speciality I believe.’

‘I grabbed a pizza with Rachel earlier.’

Of course she had. ‘Oh well, all the more for me, then.’

‘Is Ray okay?’

Jessop’s flesh chilled. ‘Why?’

‘I heard him puking earlier.’

‘You ask him about it?’ she asked warily.

‘Said he still felt crap after last night’s drinking.’

Could be true, she thought. But she doubted it. She grimaced inwardly. Keeping the truth from Chloe about Ray’s illness wasn’t going to be easy, even if it was for just three days. She understood his concerns about upsetting the girls before the wedding, yet withholding the truth was the same as lying in her eyes, and lying was something she had sworn she would never do to her daughter again.

‘And you two thought I was a lightweight,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘How’s he doing now?’

Chloe shrugged. ‘Seems alright, although he don’t look too great.’

Jessop fought back a welling tear. ‘When does he ever look great?’ she managed to say. ‘Where’s he at?’

‘Where do you think?’

She could hear the music from Ray’s den before she’d even opened the door across the hall from her office. She recognised the song as November Rain by Guns and Roses. The song was one of his modern favourites, and although more a Pink Floyd and Bruce Springsteen fan, she had to confess a secret liking for the sleazy rock band.