Requiem Mass (35 page)

Until the confrontation with West he had considered the services enquiry as one of several. His accusation of Rowland had flowed straight from his subconscious, out of his mouth without reasoning intervention. But the words, once spoken,
had become truth. He knew it, and so as he had seen in the major’s eyes, did West.

A tea tray, laid for four, arrived within a few minutes. There were garibaldi biscuits.

Nightingale was on her second cup when the door opened for the third time. West was there again but he was accompanied by another man. He was about five foot six, and wore a broad pinstripe suit with waistcoat over a rounded, plump body. He smiled at them, displaying strong, straight, slightly yellow teeth within full lips.

The smile worked his face well but did not warm his close-set eyes.

‘Detective Constable Nightingale, Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick,’ he turned his attention to the policeman. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting. Anthony had a devil of a job tracking me down and then extracting me from a meeting. Do sit down. Tony, arrange for a fresh pot and more cups, would you, old boy?’

West nearly ruined the act of familiar geniality but remembered just in time not to salute as he executed a 180-degree turn and left.

‘And you are?’

‘Er, George, Alan George. Call me George, Andrew please, everyone does.’

He settled comfortably into the chair previously vacated by West. Fresh tea arrived and the major returned.

‘Ah, good. Don’t disturb yourself, my dear; I’ll be mother.’ Nightingale had not stirred.

There was silence as he fussed over the cups. No one touched the garibaldis.

‘Now. To business. You want to know where Victor Rowland is. Well, embarrassing for us to admit it but, frankly, we don’t know.’ Fenwick drew breath. George raised a staying hand.

‘I know. I know, but it’s
not
a smoke screen. He left the service on January 14th and, after spending a few weeks in Australia, we believe he returned to this country.’

‘“Believe?” Surely, there are ways of checking, of being sure?’

‘Yes, of course. I meant that he
did
return to this country but we are not sure to where.’

‘Why was he in Australia?’ Nightingale spoke for the first time.

‘I believe a relative died. He received a small legacy and he had to sort out affairs down there.’

‘That would have been his uncle then, in Sydney?’

‘Yes, I believe I did hear word of that.’

‘Why did he leave the service?’ Fenwick’s question was blunt.

‘I’m not really sure. People do, you know. All the time, even the most unlikely people. And there are reasonable incentives to do so, you know.’

‘Was he an unlikely person to leave then?’

‘I’m not really sure; I didn’t know him.’

‘So why do you know so much about him now? And why do you know he left for Australia; and,’ Fenwick walked over to the desk again and leant on it, ‘why do you “believe” he returned? Is it usual to keep such close checks on all ex-servicemen?’

‘On some yes, it is quite usual.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Special cases. Hardship, invalid – you know, where we want to make sure they have as good a start as possible.’

‘Touching. And one reads such critical stories in the press. They obviously don’t realise how much you care. But Rowland wasn’t, isn’t, a hardship case. You said yourself he had a legacy …’

George weighed his words carefully. ‘He became ill a few months before he left and never quite recovered his health.’

‘How ill? What illness?’

‘I hardly think it’s relevant to this case.’

‘Everything about Rowland is relevant. You’ve obviously been well briefed in your few minutes between meetings.’ A thought occurred to Fenwick. ‘Unless you already
knew
of the case, of course. There will be a file somewhere; look up what you don’t know.’

‘Not even the police have automatic access to medical
records, Chief Inspector, you know that. Some things are, thank God, private.’

‘Was his illness triggered by work-related stress?’ Nightingale again paused in her note-taking to ask a question.

‘I don’t believe so.’

She rephrased her question more precisely. ‘Did he suffer from any form of mental instability?’

‘What a strange question, Constable. Why do you ask?’

‘The person we are looking for is physically very fit, hardly an invalid. Many people do suffer mental illness, and it’s more common than average in some occupations, the services being one.’

‘And the police, and police families, being another.’ George snapped back at her. ‘But I don’t think we need tread too far in that direction, do we, Fenwick?’

It was quite the wrong move and finally broke Fenwick’s precarious self-control. He leant over the complete width of George’s desk, his six-foot-three-inch, broad-shouldered frame dwarfing the portly beaurocrat.

‘Now listen here, George, if that
is
your name. You’re snowballing us and you think you’re being very clever, pretending this is minor, routine. But it’s not and you’re shit-scared, aren’t you? It’s clear you know a lot more about Rowland than you’re saying. That means something’s wrong. And you don’t want a bunch of civilian flat-foots traipsing about on your turf, do you? Well, I’ve got news for you. Just because you’ve got some highly trained weirdo out there,
don’t
think he’s all yours. Because he’s not. If he is
in any way
connected with the murders of these women, he’s mine and I intend to find him.’ His hand went to the phone on the desk. ‘You have a simple choice: help me or move aside. But
don’t
think you can stand in my way because after I call the Assistant Chief Constable, and whilst his superior is calling the Home Office, the next number I dial will be that of our press office.’

Behind him, West gulped above a minor rattling of cups. It was a tiny noise but enough to reassure Nightingale that Fenwick’s bluff speculation was close to the truth.

George glared at the major and returned his attention to Fenwick. He was in no way intimidated but his face looked suddenly tired. ‘You won’t find him.’

‘Oh, I’ll find him. You forget, I can use tactics beyond your reach. A murder is good press, good television. All I need to do is whisper “serial killer” and I’ll have hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of air time and press space. So far, I haven’t done so because it will create a circus – which will be costly to feed and hard to control. But now, you are leaving me no choice.’ He turned to leave.

‘Fenwick! A moment.’ All the urbanity had dropped from George’s demeanour, revealing the hard, intelligent, political survivor beneath. ‘Be very careful. That’s not just a threat from me. This is a
very
dangerous situation and you are proposing to blunder through it in public. I will try and stop you, though I doubt I can succeed at this stage. I repeat, this is very dangerous – and potentially damaging.’

‘Danger from Rowland or from you?’

George said nothing.

‘But you have left us no choice.’ 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Fenwick got his press briefing, backed by the Assistant Chief Constable even though the ACC was unhappy. He’d had to call in too many favours and his political sixth sense was sending him constant warning signals.

‘Be careful,’ he had said. ‘I’ve backed you this far, and we need a result, but I had to go all the way to the top to bring this in. Don’t waste it.’

They were working hard on the press briefing when a call came through from Cooper.

‘Cooper; where are you?’

‘London, sir.’

‘I thought I told you to find Anderson!’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do. I called to speak to her in Montpellier only to be told she wasn’t there.’

‘What?’

‘She’s not there. She missed her last performance two days ago because of a throat infection but,
get this
, she actually flew out of France on Saturday. She took a flight to Amsterdam and then on to Gatwick, despite the fact she could have taken a direct route home. She’s not arrived at her London home, nor at her place in the country. The maid says she hasn’t heard from her in days.’

‘Damn. We need her, and her story.’

‘It’s more than that now. She was in the country on Tuesday, when Smith was knocked down. This is the second time she’s got a dodgy alibi!’

‘Well, find her, Cooper. Take the men you need from the other teams. This is your number-one priority – and check again where she was when Deborah Fearnside disappeared.’

Fenwick slammed the phone down. ‘Damn.’

‘Problem, sir?’

‘Maybe, Nightingale, maybe. I might just be about to make the biggest bloody cock-up this force has ever seen. I’m staking the lot on Rowland – and I could be ignoring a more obvious candidate.’

‘Octavia Anderson?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s perhaps the stronger possibility, sir, you’ve got to admit.’

‘Yes, but I just don’t see her as the killer, do you?’

‘That’s irrelevant, isn’t it, sir, with respect? It’s a matter of evidence and probability. The least likely people can turn out to be guilty. It happens all the time.’

Fenwick thought for a long time, pacing the length of the stuffy room.

‘We’ll proceed as we are now. There’s no other logic for the red roses.’

‘Roses, sir?’

‘Why send herself red roses? That’s the bit that just doesn’t stack up.’

The press conference went like a dream. The BBC snatched up the opportunity to do a reconstruction of Smith’s hit-and-run and to repeat the one they had screened on Katherine Johnstone.

Fenwick’s one problem was that he had no photograph of Rowland and no real description other than the florist’s. Even for the television broadcast he had to make do with a video fit based on her vague recollections.

By ten in the evening, as the programme was going out live, they had heard from only two people who claimed to have known Rowland: one from school days, who was surprised at the degree of police interest in his tentative call; the other was from a man in Watford who claimed to have known Rowland in the army. Fenwick dispatched Cooper at once, with instructions to phone
in his report that night. The school friend, now in Newcastle, would be dealt with by local CID. He waited by the phones in the studio, desperate for further calls.

The continued low response was very disappointing and highly unusual given the
Crimewatch
coverage. There had been no wives, ex-wives, mothers-in-law, girlfriends, colleagues, old drinking pals or relatives. And the military silence was strange. Not everyone that knew him could have been warned off.

‘Sir,’ one of the constables manning the lines called him over, ‘there’s a man here claims to know Rowland but insists on speaking to you.’

‘DCI Fenwick here. Who is this?’

‘These telephones, are they the ones in the studio?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll call you back in your office. Be there, it’s important.’

The line went dead; the call had lasted less than a minute. Fenwick hung on at the studio but there were few other calls. After a brief consultation with the programme hosts, Fenwick thanked the team and left.

His office was stale and unwelcoming. The waste-paper basket sat unemptied from the day, two mugs, encrusted with the remains of the day’s supply of coffee, weighed down an overflowing in-tray, in which the insistent memoranda of bureaucracy clamoured for attention.

He rang his mother briefly to check on the children and was amused to hear that she had taped his television appearance, but not the reconstruction, to share with them the next day. Then he sat back to wait. To keep himself awake, and to stop his mind from worrying at the edges of the case, he started to work on the in-tray.

The tray was empty and the waste bin had disappeared under a paper mountain when his phone shrilled into life. He started up from a dozing slouch and grabbed the receiver. His watch showed 2.45 a.m.

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick?’ It was a man’s voice, smooth, accentless.

‘Yes. Who else would be stupid enough to be here at this time of night?’

‘OK, calm down. It’s important you listen carefully. I haven’t long. Do you have pen and paper?’

‘Er, yes. Who is this?’ His question was ignored.

‘I want you to go to the east corner of Market Square. Be there by three. I’ll call you at the phone box there.’

‘What? Hey, hang on!’ Fenwick was speaking to the echo of an empty line. ‘Bugger, he’s gone again!’

Fenwick replaced the receiver and rubbed his chin in thought, the black stubble rasping against his fingers. He must look a sight. He would probably be arrested for loitering if he went into town at this hour. Still, he had a choice. He could ignore the man and go home or, having waited this long, he could give him one last chance. Fenwick looked at his watch again, it was already ten to three. He hadn’t been given long to make up his mind. The rational, safe move was to go home. On impulse, he picked up his keys and left.

The call came at three exactly. Fenwick was in no mood to play further games. He spoke into the handset as soon as he picked it up.

‘Now listen, whoever you are, this is your last chance. You can tell me who you are and what you have to say now, or forget it.’

‘I’ll speak to you now, Fenwick. There’s no way this line could be tapped.’ Fenwick refused to react to the melodramatic remark.

‘Your office line undoubtedly is, Fenwick, and I couldn’t be sure about the studio.’

‘Then why not meet in my office?’

‘Oh, that will definitely be wired – and your home too, so watch what you discuss there. You’ve no idea who or what you’re up against.’

‘And you do? Who are you?’

‘I’ll perhaps give you a name later – but first, I want to be sure we need to talk at all. Tell me about the murders and why you need to find Vic.’

The man still had all the cards. If he was to make anything of the call, Fenwick had no choice but to give him a brief account of the two murders and Smith’s hit-and-run, dwelling on the vulnerability and innocence of the women and the viciousness of the attacks.