Psycho Alley (21 page)

‘You're making the assumption I'm going to ask you,' Henry said.

Morrison opened up as neatly as a fly zip. Henry took a step back from the questioning but kept in touch by watching and listening to the interviews taking place via an audio-visual link specially installed and relayed to the MIR. His detectives impressed him. They questioned carefully and slowly, getting to the point and neatly nailing Morrison to the ground as they did.

He blabbed in detail about his abduction attempts, including the rape and near-murder of one of his victims. He was proud to be a predator. He loved stalking children – ‘I love kids,' he insisted – at which point Henry would have loved to rush into the room and smash the bastard's head on the interview table. He refrained.

The case against him was building up nicely, he thought, though something was niggling at him, something not quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

‘Boss?'

Henry looked up from the policy book he was again working on. It was Jerry Tope, Henry's intelligence cell. Henry sat back.

‘Can I come in?'

‘Enter my domain,' he said gravely, inviting the DC into his vast, spacious office, making him walk the walk of death from door to desk. Or at least take the three steps required. ‘What can I do for you?'

Tope had a sheaf of papers in his mitts. He shook the paper gently at Henry. ‘Some of the research you asked me to do.'

‘Fire away.'

‘Been looking at the abductions from surrounding forces with Ralph Jackson, like you asked.'

‘A commendation for you, then.'

Tope gave him a quick glance, then continued. ‘We found three over the last eighteen months, three young girls who never turned up. I think Ralph mentioned these to you yesterday.' Henry nodded. ‘Now, this is only me putting two and two together,' Tope said nervously.

‘Fair dos,' Henry said, placing his pen down, giving his full attention.

‘Executive summary first,' the DC said. ‘Three girls missing without a trace equals, I believe, three dead girls,' he said solemnly. Henry nodded again. ‘All the MOs seem to tie in with the Jodie Greaves murder – girls go missing on Friday evenings, all near motorways or A-class roads – and I think, therefore, we've got three dead girls on us … somewhere.' His voice trailed off.

‘Carry on,' Henry urged.

‘The MO: all abducted from similar locations, all within yards, literally, of main roads which lead into Lancashire.'

‘Or in other directions to who knows where,' Henry pointed out.

‘Agreed,' Tope conceded. ‘But if they have come in this direction, they all fit together … the locations of the abductions are similar: poor-ish areas, primary schools nearby, sheltered housing for old folk nearby, quick getaway access to roads leading to Lancashire … and no offences actually committed in Lancs.'

‘Whoa, hold up there.' Henry raised a hand. ‘What about matey in the traps down below, singing like a soprano?'

The DC pulled a doubtful face. ‘I'm an intelligence analyst and I make judgements on what's in front of me. If you ask me, Morrison doesn't fit the pattern.'

‘Why not?'

‘Trust me, boss, he doesn't.' Henry eyed his junior colleague, who went on, ‘I'll lay odds he's not guilty of Jodie Greaves's murder. He's too disorganized, too random, too stupid.'

‘He's admitted killing her and George Uren,' Henry insisted defensively.

Another even more doubtful face from the DC, followed by a sigh of confidence. ‘There's a good chance he did know Uren. They served time in Wymott about five years ago, but only overlapped briefly. Since then, Morrison hasn't been back to prison and there's nothing in his file,' – he held up his sheaf of papers – ‘which Rochdale were good enough to send us, to suggest he's seen Uren since that time. If I had to put a quid on it, I'd say Morrison isn't a killer. In future, he could be, but he hasn't got to that point yet.'

‘So you're a psychologist now?'

‘Just looking at the escalation of his offences, and, and, there is something else.'

‘Astound me,' said a rather pissed-off Henry Christie.

‘Morrison comes into Lancashire to commit offences; the three girls, plus Jodie Greaves, were all snatched outside Lancashire, and I'll bet they were brought into the county and murdered.'

‘Big hypothesis.'

‘That's what we do, isn't it? Test hypotheses?'

‘So you don't think he's our killer?'

‘Nah. He's the one you were after for our abductions and assaults, I reckon, but not for the murder. From what I've seen of the interviews, he's very detailed about what he's done in Blackpool, less so when it comes to the murders.'

‘So why admit it?'

‘To please you? Who knows? He's a nutter. I'd be interested to know how much detail he gives about the murders.'

Henry rubbed his temples. ‘Let's go and see-hear how they're getting on. Let's get them to ask detailed questions about Jodie Greaves and Uren.'

As they rose to their feet, DC John Walker, the detective on technical support who Henry had contacted for a favour the previous evening, appeared at the office door.

‘Your car keys,' Walker said, handing Henry his bunch of keys.

‘All done?' Henry said, eyebrows raised.

‘And dusted.'

Henry sat looking at the monitor for the audio-visual link to the MIR, an ugly sensation pervading him. He felt quite tired, ill and not a little bit old.

‘Shite,' he said under his breath. He folded his arms self-protectively, chewing on his bottom lip, flicking it with his tongue. His eyes watched the monitor, his eyes occasionally glancing at Jane Roscoe and Jerry Tope. Henry's chest was tightening as he listened to the probing questions the interviewing detectives were now putting to Morrison, who squirmed as the verbal shots were fired.

‘I swear I killed her and Uren,' he insisted.

‘Did you abduct her?'

‘Yes.'

‘From where?'

‘Harrogate.'

‘Exactly where in Harrogate?'

A shrug.

‘How well do you know Harrogate?'

‘Not well.'

‘How many times have you been there?'

‘Quite a few.'

‘Tell me how you get there.'

Morrison paused, stumped. The DC repeated the question, but got no reply.

‘Let me ask you again – did you kill Jodie Greaves?'

‘Yes.'

‘Describe how.'

‘Stabbed her.'

‘Back, front, neck … where? How?'

‘All over.'

‘What about Uren?'

‘Same.'

‘What else did you do at the scene of Uren's murder?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You tell me … what else did you do?'

‘Don't know what you mean.'

‘Did you stab him in the back?'

‘Yes.'

‘How many times?'

‘Ten, maybe.'

‘Did you stab him in the eye?'

‘Yeah, both.'

‘Did you cut his little finger off?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you stab him with your screwdriver?'

‘Yeah – and the girl too.'

‘What complete and utter bollocks,' Henry said. ‘You're right, he just wants to please us, the bastard.' He looked coldly at Tope. ‘Well spotted,' he acknowledged grudgingly, realizing that his nickname ‘Bung' was in no way justified.

The silent scream. Head in hands, elbows on desks, eyes covered. Henry could not stop shaking his head in disbelief. He sat up, thumped the desk and steadied himself.

He'd been so sure that he had tunnel-visioned himself, but when the facts were examined, there was no way in which Morrison could be the killer he was after. Oh yes, there was a lot of work still to do on him. He was a very bad man, a danger to the public, and the case against him had to be built very carefully. He had to go to prison for a very long time and all the offences he could possibly have committed must be investigated and pinned on him. There would be many more than the ones in Lancashire, Henry was sure. But not Jodie Greaves's murder, nor George Uren's. Morrison had now given up that pretence under questioning, but could not even begin to explain why he had admitted to the murders in the first place, other than to say, ‘I want to kill someone.'

A noise at the office door made Henry look up: Dave Anger stood there smirking. He didn't say a word, but pushed himself away from the door and walked off.

‘Fuck you,' Henry said. Quietly. His attention turned to the paperwork, but he could not concentrate on it.

‘Can I enter the dragon's lair?' Jane Roscoe said. She was holding two mugs of steaming coffee.

‘Only if they contain shots of JD's finest.'

‘Kenco unleaded, I'm afraid,' she said, meaning the coffee was decaffeinated.

‘That'll do.'

She came in, closed the door with her toe, sat down opposite and passed a mug to Henry. He took it gratefully, smiled. They regarded each other over the rims of the mugs. A flash of memory: Henry saw them making love, could feel how good it had been, but how it had to end.

‘Cheers.' He raised the mug, more to the memory than anything.

She placed her mug on her lap, wrapping her hands around it, leaning forward on the chair. ‘You must think you'll never get rid of me,' she said. ‘The bane of your existence.'

‘It has crossed my mind. But still, you reap what you sow.

‘And you certainly sowed some seed,' Jane smiled. Maybe she was recalling some of the things Henry had just seen in his mind's eye. She sat back. ‘Look … I can't deny I have feelings for you, probably always will have. You saved my life for a start, but that's not the only reason I fell in love with you, the knight in shining armour stuff, and when you dumped me I was devastated and angry. Still am a bit, but,' she gave a movement of her shoulders, ‘it's over and won't be resurrected.' She closed her eyes and slowly opened them again, as if drawing a line under something. ‘That's why my behaviour towards you varies so much. Anyway, fact remains I told my husband. Things aren't going well for us, the baby never came – thankfully, I suppose – we drifted apart, started arguing … the story of a million crap marriages, I guess. But blab I did.'

‘How badly did he take it?'

‘On a scale of one to ten – ten plus. He made all sorts of childish threats.'

‘Such as?'

She hesitated awkwardly. ‘Threatened to kill you, threatened to tell Kate, threatened to cut your brake pipes, threatened to go to the chief constable … run of the mill stuff.'

‘Think he's capable of doing these things?'

‘No … maybe … no,' she decided finally, but not with a great deal of conviction. ‘He's a gentle man, really,' she said whimsically.

‘Worms turn,' Henry said. ‘I've already had my car damaged.'

‘You're joking.'

‘And I've received some threatening texts.' Henry fished out his mobile and handed it to Kate. ‘One of which relates to brake pipes.'

She looked at the texts, mouth dropping open. ‘It's not his number,' she said as she tabbed through the screens. Henry shot her a withering glance. ‘I know, I know,' she admitted, handing the phone back. ‘Anyone can buy a new SIM card. Nice little message from Kate, though … sorry, couldn't resist.'

Henry coloured up, but decided to ignore it. ‘Could it be him, you think?'

‘Dunno. He has been out of the house a lot at strange times, and so have I, I suppose.' She screwed her face up. ‘I don't see him doing things like that, really, but he was furious when he made the threats.'

‘More furious than you'd ever seen him?'

That stumped her, because the answer was yes. Her foot started to shake.

‘Bloody hell,' said Henry, visions of his new, steady life being torn apart by a past indiscretion. He had managed to keep the affair secret from Kate, though he suspected she had an inkling about it, but if Mr Bloody Roscoe went and told her, he would have trouble keeping Kate from throwing him out on his ear. He rubbed his neck and groaned, feeling his bones scrape.

‘You still under one roof?' Henry asked.

‘For the time being.'

‘Reconciliation?'

She shook her head with certainty.

‘OK. Way forward?'

She shrugged. ‘See how it pans out?'

‘Oh … my … God,' he uttered desperately. ‘Let's see if he tells Kate and then murders me. Hm.' He put a thoughtful finger to his lips. ‘Let me think about that one.'

‘Not much else we can do. The cat's out of the bag and if he chooses to make a stink about it, we'll have to deal with it then.'

‘Fantastic,' Henry said dryly. The phone on his desk rang. He scooped it up before the second ring and announced himself, then went quiet and sat upright as he listened. Finally he said, ‘I'll be there in …' He checked his watch. ‘Twenty minutes.' He replaced the phone and stood up. ‘Gotta go,' he said urgently, flustered, searching for his car keys which were right in front of him on the desk.

‘What is it?' Jane asked, face creased with concern.

‘My mum's been burgled.'

J
anet Christie, eighty-six years old, lived alone on a warden-controlled old people's complex on the outskirts of Poulton-le-Fylde. She had a comfortable one-bedroom bungalow with all the mod cons for an easy life. Frank, her husband, Henry's father, had died ten years earlier, having left her with serious money from property and pensions and she did not want for anything, except better health, better memory and a son who visited her more regularly.

Henry had watched her slow deterioration since his dad had died. It had been her decision to go into sheltered housing, having sold the mortgage-free marital home, because she did not want to be a burden. At first the decision had been ludicrous to Henry, but as the years passed, he'd seen the sense. She had anticipated the future, but he had not. Now she needed a cane for support and it was a struggle for her to even make her own meals. She had not reached her dotage, but it was on the horizon, yet she remained fiercely independent and fought the prospect of the next big move in her life … to an old people's home.