Primal Cut (14 page)

Bevan leaned forward. ‘Can I suggest we pull in Bob Woollard for questioning? I’ve deliberately held off until now. I was hoping we could sort the Shaw case independently and I could continue my investigation into Woollard. I don’t think that’s possible anymore so we might as well give him a going over. He might know where this Garrod
character went. He may know if he’s working somewhere else. Woollard is very well connected.’

‘Good idea,’ Dexter agreed. ‘John, I want you to coordinate the efforts at ground level. This is a full scale manhunt now and you are the most experienced officer in that area.’

‘What area exactly?’ Underwood asked suspiciously; the sparks that he loved in Dexter’s eyes seemed to have become flames.

‘Poster campaign, distribution of the photofit to uniform, coordinating press strategy. That kind of area.’

Underwood resisted the urge to argue: such tasks hardly inspired his imagination.

‘One idea,’ Bevan added, ‘Gwynne told me that this Norlington/Garrod character drove a van. Given that he is unlikely to have a permanent address, I’ll bet that the van isn’t taxed or insured. It might be worth telling traffic to keep their eyes open for untaxed transit vans.’ Bevan addressed his comments mainly to Underwood who seemed to have been put in charge of such things.

‘I’ll do that,’ said Underwood grimly.

‘We should think about what this guy is doing for money and accommodation,’ Dexter asserted. ‘I’ll handle that. Given that he used the name Norlington, I’ll also compile a list of other street names from Leyton. It seems Bartholomew has a
fairly limited imagination when it comes to false identities. We can circulate the names locally: we might get lucky.’

‘What precautions are you taking?’ Underwood asked. ‘You want me to book you a hotel room until this is over?’

Dexter stared coldly through him. ‘You just do what I’ve asked you to do.’

Her acidic comment chilled the silent room. Leach was the first to break.

‘I’ll let you know when the SOCO report on Garrod’s room at the Dog and Feathers is complete. Marty Farrell tells me that they’ve found nothing of any specific use yet though.’

‘Thank you, Roger.’ Dexter stood. The meeting was over. Only Underwood remained in the office.

‘Can I have a minute?’ he asked.

‘One minute,’ Dexter nodded.

‘You trampled me a bit then. Was there any particular reason?’

Dexter wanted to scream and shout abuse into Underwood’s pathetic, crumpled face: bellow his betrayal, his madness straight back into his wounded eyes. Instead, she settled for ice.

‘I’m annoyed you lost your case file keys. That is sloppy.’

‘And you’ve never lost anything?’ Underwood asked, irritated.

‘Nothing as important as that. John, I’ve gone out on a limb for you.’

‘I realise that.’

‘After what you did to that bloke back in 2000, frankly you should have been booted out of the force.’

Underwood said nothing: his attack on his ex-wife’s lover was ancient history to him now.

‘One of the reasons that you weren’t,’ Dexter continued, ‘is that I stood up for you. I offered you another chance. Not many people would have done that.’

‘I know Alison. You have no idea how much I appreciate that. I just feel that your criticism is disproportionate to the offence.’

‘Go and do your job then. Prove me wrong.’

Dexter sat at her desk and dug out the London street atlas that she kept in her bottom drawer. Underwood left her to it.

The street map of Leyton was on page 51. It covered an area from the southern edge of Walthamstow down to Stratford and Hackney Wick at the bottom of the page. Dexter traced some of the familiar roads with her finger. There was Wilmot Street, just north of Leyton Orient Football Ground, where she had lived for two years; across and to the right was Dawlish Road where Kelsi Hensy had once gone to school. Her index finger moved past Francis Road, the location of Leyton CID, and eventually
came to rest on Norlington Road, the former home of Bartholomew and Raymond Garrod.

Dexter took a pen and began to note the names of the closest streets: Belgrave, Morley, Claude, Murchison, Albert, Newport, Tyndall, Francis and Cavendish. She discounted Pretoria Road and Rhodesia Road as too exotic to attract Bartholomew Garrod. Next to Francis Road she saw St. George’s Road. Was that where the George of George Norlington had come from? Alison Dexter sat back and wondered how to present the information. The combinations were endless.

Or were they? Some of the road names could only really be surnames. Likewise, others could only be Christian names. It took her about fifteen minutes on her computer to create a working table of potential names:

Dexter read through the list trying to find the strongest candidates. She paid little attention to the last row and column of her table. Surely Garrod wouldn’t use the same name again? She wondered if the list was useful. Garrod was no fool. Still, they didn’t have much to work with. Maybe a name would spark someone’s memory. She printed it and created a photocopy for Underwood to distribute to uniform.

Then, bored with her life and most of the people in it, she decided to write an email.

Kelsi Hensy had endured a difficult morning. ComBold was about to undergo a corporate restructuring and her department had been charged with the responsibility of explaining the changes to the workforce. Kelsi had written most of the draft internal communications herself the previous week and so she was especially annoyed when her proofs came back to her covered in mark-ups and deletions. Perhaps she had taken her eye off the ball. Her two nights with Alison Dexter had been intense; disruptive almost. The first had been an energy-sapping explosion of sexuality; the second had been an anxiety-brewing disaster.

Intense. That was a good word to describe Alison Dexter. Kelsi had sensed the fierce intelligence behind Dexter’s jade green eyes when they had first met. Jade seemed appropriate. Hard, green and precious. Kelsi owned a jade statuette that she had bought on holiday in Thailand. She loved jade. The stone contained sodium and aluminium; salt and metal. That seemed appropriate for Dexter too.

Intense. The word kept rebounding inside her mind. Was intensity what she wanted? Kelsi’s outlook and attitude was relentlessly positive. Even now, as she agonisingly retyped the restructuring notice that she had sweated blood over a few days previously, Kelsi tried to focus on the positives: clearer language meant better explanations, better explanations promoted understanding. Her job was to create understanding. Alison Dexter played football in an intense fury of semi-competence. Kelsi had not been embarrassed by Dexter’s mistakes, but by her self-deprecating reaction to them. She found Dexter interesting company and sexually exciting but, in a funny way, Dexter was hard work. Kelsi’s job was well paid but extremely demanding. She needed relief and stimulation in her social life: Alison Dexter was stimulating, but in no way a relief.

Kelsi’s computer beeped, signifying an incoming message. Wearily, she turned and checked the
inbox. It was from Alison Dexter. Kelsi clicked the message open.

Intense. Kelsi considered her options for a moment before writing a terse reply.

She sent the message and returned immediately to her rewrites.

Barthlomew Garrod finished work at 7 p.m. and drove directly from Sawtry into New Bolden. There was a pub on Huntingdon Road that looked out onto the car park of New Bolden police station. Garrod knew he was taking a risk. However, he was confident that, other than his size, he looked very different to the last time Alison Dexter saw him in his butcher’s shop in Leyton. He nursed a pint and watched.

Alison Dexter left the main building shortly before eight o’clock. Garrod tensed as he saw her. He quickly finished his pint and hurried out the back of the pub to his van. His plan was to follow her home. As yet, he did not have her home address: that would open up all sorts of possibilities. The actual killing would take place elsewhere, most likely in his new kitchen at Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital, but Garrod had other ideas too.

He followed Dexter for about five minutes, keeping well back from her dark blue Mondeo. To his surprise and disappointment, she did not head home but instead parked in a town centre ‘Pay and Display’ car park. Garrod pulled up on a double yellow line briefly and watched the distant Dexter jog across Market Street and into the reception of a restaurant. She was a butterfly in his net. Not
wanting to attract attention, Garrod waited until she was safely inside, then drove his van around a corner into a road called Maltings where he found a parking space. He locked his van and headed back towards the car park in search of cover.

Kelsi Hensy was already waiting at the bar of Marco’s when Dexter came through the front door.

‘Hello,’ Dexter said, slightly out of breath, ‘sorry I’m a bit late. We’ve been buried all day today. Manhunt. Murder investigation. Complete nightmare.’

‘Drink?’

‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, I think,’ Dexter announced. ‘Let’s go crazy, eh?’

Kelsi ordered a Martini for herself. ‘I’m sorry to blow you out for dinner. It’s just that I’m exhausted. Last night was the final straw really; I couldn’t sleep after you’d gone.’

‘I’m sorry about that. I think I know what’s going on.’

‘What?’

Dexter paused, unsure how much she should reveal. ‘One of the guys in CID had a nervous breakdown a couple of years ago. He’s never been
the same. He’s harmless enough but he has, well, lapses.’

‘You think that last night was a “lapse”?’ Kelsi asked unhappily. ‘What if he’d tried to break in? Or was taking photos of me getting changed?’

Dexter was anxious to reassure Kelsi that the matter was in hand. ‘Look, trust me. I will sort this out. I’m a much better copper than I am a footballer.’

The drinks arrived and Kelsi took a comforting draught. ‘Ali, I wanted to talk to you about things.’

Dexter felt a flash of panic. ‘Oh,’ she said sadly, ‘“things”. “Things” generally mean trouble.’

‘We’ve gone a long way very quickly, Ali,’ Kelsi explained, ‘maybe too quickly. That was my fault. I forced the issue. I couldn’t help myself.’

‘And now you’ve had enough?’ Dexter thought that she had got the message; her gin tasted especially sour.

‘Don’t say that. That’s not what I said. You are twisting my words. Listen, I like you. I like you a lot. From the first moment I saw you, I fancied you rotten.

‘And you’re a good laugh, Ali, when you want to be,’ Kelsi continued.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s just too intense for me: at the moment anyway.’

‘Intense,’ Dexter said, mainly to herself. ‘That’s original at least.’

‘Can’t we just cool things down for a week or two? I’ll call you in a fortnight.’

Dexter stood up and walked out of the bar without replying. Kelsi ran out into the street after her.

‘Ali, wait!’

Dexter kept walking.

Across the square, on the other side of the car park, Garrod watched from a safe distance.

‘Ali, listen,’ Kelsi said as she caught up with her, ‘I just want a little break that’s all. This is a busy time for me. I still want you.’

Dexter stopped walking and turned. She was crying.

‘Honestly?’ she asked.

‘Honestly,’ Kelsi replied, kissing Dexter softly on the lips.

Bartholomew Garrod watched dumbfounded. He had never seen two women kiss each other. It was a thrilling experience.

‘And you will call me?’ Dexter asked.

‘Two weeks today. I promise. I’ll have more free time by then.’

‘OK.’

Kelsi kissed Dexter again, less passionately this time. ‘I need to go home and get some sleep now.’

Dexter laughed despite her tears. ‘I understand.’

‘There,’ said Kelsi, ‘you’ve got a great laugh. You look better when you laugh. Do it more often.’

Dexter nodded. ‘I’ll speak to you soon,’ was the last thing she said before Kelsi Hensy climbed into her car.

Garrod had seen enough. Excitement was making his mouth water. He hurried back into the Maltings and fired up his transit van. As he pulled back onto the market square, two cars drove across in front of him. The first was Alison Dexter’s Mondeo, the second was Kelsi Hensy’s new Peugeot 206. He rolled out behind them. At the first junction, the Mondeo turned left and the Peugeot turned right.