Night Fall (25 page)

‘We've questioned most of the people on the route between the pub and Windsor Street. We stopped people out walking their dogs, people on their way through on bikes and in cars, and we're no further ahead than when we started. To be honest, Len, I think we're all wasting our time going out there again this morning.'

‘So what do you suggest we do?' Ormside asked.

‘I don't know, and that's the trouble,' Tregalles said wearily. ‘Even if we assume Connie Rice was taken by the same person who killed the other three, we still don't know what connects the victims.'

‘Forsythe seems convinced there's a connection through the All Saints choir,' Ormside said. ‘Both Travis and Whitelaw were in the same choir, and Whitelaw did go to see Mike Fulbright, another member of the choir, shortly before he died. And you said you don't believe that Fulbright was telling the truth when he said all they talked about was cars.'

‘I'm sure he wasn't,' Tregalles said, ‘but the fact that some of them were in the same choir ten or twenty years ago, doesn't mean much in a town this size. I know Molly's got it stuck in her head that there's a connection, but I can't see it myself.' He frowned as he looked around the office. ‘Where is she, anyway?' he asked.

‘Where you'd better be if you don't want Paget on your case,' Ormside said. ‘She's been out there since seven o'clock this morning, talking to anyone she happens to meet.'

Tregalles looked at the clock. ‘It's only just turned eight now,' he said. ‘What the hell is she trying to prove?'

‘I don't think she's trying to prove anything,' Ormside said, ‘or needs to for that matter. I suspect she believes, as you do, that all this knocking on doors and stopping people in the street is a waste of time, but she's slogging through it because she knows it has to be done just in case. So why don't you go out there and give her a hand?'

The morning sun felt warm against his face as he drove along the top of the quarry, but once he dropped below the lip of the giant excavation, the sunlight disappeared, and he was reminded that it was late October, and summer was long gone. He shivered, but not so much from cold as from the memory of his last visit here. He felt guilty about slipping out of the house and leaving Jimmy behind, but Alice had flatly refused to let the boy return to the quarry. He'd agreed to skip coming here last Saturday, telling Jimmy that he had other things to do, but he knew his son had been looking forward to coming with him this weekend, and he wished now that he'd insisted on bringing him.

‘He didn't actually
see
anything,' he'd reminded his wife, ‘so there's nothing for him to be frightened of.'

But Alice wouldn't budge, and he'd finally given in and stopped arguing. Maybe later, when all the fuss had died down, Alice might change her mind and he could bring the boy here again.

Descending to the quarry floor, Ron Jackson stopped the pickup close to what looked like a fresh fall of stones. Sometimes the rains did that, and some of the stones looked to be about the size he was looking for. He stuck the goggles on his head, then took the sledgehammer and the largest of the cold chisels from the box in the back of the pickup, and set them on the ground. Then, head down, he began to pick his way carefully through the smaller stuff to reach the larger stones. He was wearing boots, but it was all too easy to turn an ankle, and having done that once, he'd learned to be careful. He found a flat spot and stopped to look for just the right stone to start on. Some would split well, while others would either refuse to split, or suddenly shatter into a thousand pieces and leave you with—

‘Oh, Jesus!'

Ron Jackson felt as if his blood had turned to water. He couldn't believe his eyes. He kept telling himself it was some sort of distorted mental image, an hallucination left over from the time before; it couldn't possibly be real.

But it was real, all too real. His stomach churned and suddenly he was on his hands and knees, spewing out his breakfast.

‘Looks like the ground broke away beneath her when she reached the edge up there,' Paget said, ‘and the whole lot came down with her. Her hands are bound behind her back, her mouth is taped just like the others, and the letter A has been carved in her forehead. God only knows what their killer thinks these people have done that they need to die in such a cruel and sadistic way.'

He was speaking to Amanda Pierce, who had just arrived at the scene. ‘Starkie estimates that she's been dead for more than a day, possibly two. And if that proves to be true, Connie Rice was driven out here and killed within hours of leaving the pub – and, like the others, he believes she was alive when she went over the edge.'

There was an air of desperation in the incident room that afternoon. SOCO was out in full force at the crime scene; Connie's flat was being searched again, and her flat-mate, Sandra Palmer, was being pressured to think of
anything
Connie had said or done that might be relevant to the investigation. Five more people claimed to have seen ‘the man in the picture on TV', and although Paget knew it was a long shot, he sent Molly off to ask Rick Crowley for the names and addresses, if he knew them, of the regulars who had been in the Red Lion on Wednesday. ‘They may not have been in the pub at the same time as the man Crowley claims was chatting up Connie,' said Paget, ‘but one of them may know the people who were celebrating their lottery win, and one of
them
may be able to tell us more about this mystery man, or at least give us a better description. And I'll get the press officer to put out an appeal for anyone who was in or near the pub that evening as well.' He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but with nothing else to work with, what was there to lose?

They had tried several times to contact Connie Rice's mother, without success, and there was no one home when the Bristol police went round to the house. ‘They're off somewhere different almost every weekend,' a neighbour told them. ‘They'll probably be back Sunday evening.'

Paget was staring blankly at the whiteboards when the phone on Ormside's desk rang. It sounded louder than usual in the unnatural quiet of an almost deserted room. The sergeant answered, then handed it to Paget, mouthing ‘Superintendent Pierce,' and pointing upwards.

‘We're on
Breaking News
on Radio Shropshire,' she said. ‘They appear to have full details linking all the murders, and they used the phrase “serial killer” at least six or seven times in a two-minute clip, so you can imagine how that will go over with the public. So I think the sooner we respond the better, and I've instructed the press officer to set up a conference for six o'clock this evening, where I'll be making a statement and asking the public for their help. I'll also make another appeal to anyone who was in the Red Lion that night to come forward. And, as the senior officer heading the investigation, I think you should be there as well, Neil – so, with less than two hours to go, I'd like you to come up and help me draft an opening statement. As for the questions . . . they'll be after blood, so we'll just have to do the best we can.'

Mike Fulbright was still feeling the effects of last night's celebration when he came down for breakfast. The Grinders had been playing away the day before, and it had been midnight before he got home. Bleary-eyed, and with a dull ache nagging away at the back of his head, he'd given serious consideration to staying in bed and to hell with the choir this morning. But the thought of young Findlay stealing a march on him changed his mind.

‘Do we
really
have to listen to the news at this time on a Sunday morning?' he asked irritably as he filled his plate. ‘It's nothing but doom and gloom, for God's sake!'

‘I was just listening to see if there was any update on the hunt for the serial killer,' Rachel said mildly. ‘I thought you'd be interested since one of the victims was a fellow choir member, Billy Travis. And then there was the chap the police said came to see you just before he was killed. Whitelaw, was it? And now they've found the girl who was missing, in Clapperton quarry just like one of the men before her. You know a lot of women, Mike. Perhaps you knew her as well? Connie Rice?'

Hunched over his plate, Mike became very still. ‘So what did they say?' he asked. ‘Do they have any idea who's behind the killings?'

‘It didn't sound to me as if they know very much at all,' she said. ‘They were on TV last night. One of them was that chief inspector who came to see you, but neither of them said very much. Just that they're doing everything they can. They're following several leads – you know, the usual stuff – and they made an appeal for anyone who was in or near the Red Lion on Wednesday night to come forward. They spun it out a bit, but it sounded to me as if they didn't have a clue, and I mean literally!'

Rachel reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. ‘You were out Wednesday evening, weren't you, Mike?' she asked innocently. ‘Were you anywhere near the Red Lion?'

Sunday, a day of rest . . . for some, perhaps, but not for others, and Amanda Pierce's car was already there when Paget pulled into his parking space in Charter Lane. He'd come in this morning simply because, knowing the killer was still out there, he couldn't stay away, and there had to be
something
he could do to get the investigation moving again. But what? The question had been pounding away inside his head since last night. The press conference had been bad enough, but it looked ten times worse by the time the editors had worked it over for airing on the late evening news.

He entered the building and was heading for the incident room when the duty sergeant stopped him to tell him that Detective Superintendent Pierce wanted to see him in her office the moment he arrived.

‘Sounds serious,' Paget said. ‘Did she say anything else?'

‘No, sir,' the man said, lowering his voice, ‘but she usually says “Good morning” when she comes in. Not this morning though. Tell the truth, sir, she looked a bit grim.'

He was right. Amanda did look grim when Paget tapped on the door and entered her office. She waved him to a seat, then sat looking at him across the desk for a full half minute before she spoke.

‘I received a call from Mr Brock following the press conference last night,' she said abruptly. ‘To say that he was less than pleased would be an understatement, in fact he called it a public relations disaster. He told me that neither he, nor the assistant chief constable, nor the chief constable are happy with the lack of progress on these serial killings, and then went on to say he attributes that to a lack of cooperation between you and me.'

Amanda paused, eyes narrowed as if searching for something. ‘I don't know where he's getting his information from,' she continued, ‘but he went on to say there have been rumours – or as he put it
disturbing
rumours – that you and I are not working well together because of something in our past relationship in the Met, and because you resent being passed over by me when I was given this job. He went on to suggest that you may have been dragging your feet in this investigation because of that resentment, and said that if we can't resolve our differences and work together to clear up this case, then perhaps one or both of us should consider a transfer to what he called a “more productive environment”.'

Paget eyed Amanda levelly. ‘Were you given an opportunity to reply?' he asked.

Amanda looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. ‘I was,' she said, ‘and I tried to be diplomatic, but I'm afraid my tongue got the better of me. I suggested that if he had read my daily progress reports more carefully, he would see that we have followed every possible lead, but until we can establish a connection between the victims and come up with a motive, or find some physical evidence to work with, our hands are tied. In retrospect, I should have shut up then, but the man's whole attitude annoyed me, so I went on to tell him I would be more than happy to listen to any suggestions he might have regarding what we could have done differently, and I asked him to point out exactly what we've missed. I also told him I had every confidence in your work; that you've given me your full cooperation on every level and your record should speak for itself.'

The corners of her mouth twitched in what might have been a wry grin if the muscles hadn't been quite so taut. ‘I'm afraid that little speech didn't go over very well,' she said. ‘Hardly surprising, I suppose, considering his background. The man hasn't got a clue about on-the-job policing. I like to know the backgrounds of people I'm dealing with, so I made it my business to learn about Detective Chief Superintendent Brock's background, and, as I'm sure you know, he came up through the admin side of the service, and he's never done a day on the front line in his life.

‘Unfortunately,' she continued with something like a sigh of resignation, ‘he is still my boss, and he reminded me that I was very much on trial here and told me not to be impertinent. Then he switched to what he called “these rumours about the bad blood between the two of you”, and demanded to know what that was all about.'

Amanda's eyes locked with Paget's own. ‘So I told him, yes, there had been a bit of friction between families years ago, but you and I had resolved our differences and it was no longer an issue.' Amanda stopped speaking, but her gaze never wavered. ‘But that's not true, is it, Neil?' she said softly. ‘We haven't resolved our differences, at least with regard to Matthew, have we?'

‘No,' he said, ‘I'm afraid we haven't, Amanda, and to be honest, I don't know if we ever will. I'll continue to do my job, but every time I see you I think of Matthew and the way he died, and what that did to Jill. That was cruel, Amanda, and I can't get past that.'