The Cradle in the Grave (24 page)

An eruption of whispers and murmurs filled the room. Proust waited for it to subside before saying, ‘Mrs Jaggard is adamant that this card was not on her person when she left home to go to the doctor's, and that there's no way it could have made its way into her pocket unless her attacker put it there. The numbers mean nothing to her, or so she told DC Waterhouse. She kept the card in the hope of working out what it meant, thinking it had to mean something. She informed neither her husband nor local police about the attack.' The Snowman raised his hand to halt the loud expressions of incredulity. ‘Don't be so sure you would have behaved differently in her position. Her only experience of the law is a negative one. The thought of inviting the big boots of plod to re-enter her life when they'd crushed it once before was unappealing to say the least. She was also terrified that, if this man were caught, he would say she'd admitted to killing Beatrice Furniss. She decided a better way to deal with what had happened was never to leave the house again. Her husband Glen noticed a deterioration in her condition, but had no idea of the cause.'

‘So we've got a serial, or an aspiring serial?' Klair Williamson asked.

‘We don't use that word unless we have to,' said Proust. ‘What we have is a strong interest in these sixteen numbers. No help so far from Bramshill or GCHQ, or from the Maths departments of the universities I contacted. I'm considering going to the press with it. If we need to wade through a thousand lunatics to find out what these numbers mean, then that's what we'll do. And, while I'm on the bad news, my request for a psychological profiler did not meet with a favourable response, I'm sorry to say. The usual excuse: lack of money. We're going to have to do our own profiling, at least until bust gives way to boom.'

‘I thought boom and bust had been abolished,' someone called out.

‘That was a lie told by a man every bit as criminal as the shaven-headed individual who held a knife to Sarah Jaggard's throat,' Proust snapped. ‘A man . . .'—he tapped the police artist's image with his pen to make it clear who he was talking about—'. . . that Mrs Stella White, of 16 Bengeo Street, says
might
be the man she saw on Helen Yardley's driveway on Monday morning. He
might
have had a shaven head, even though in her original account, he had darkish hair. Her son Dillon says it's definitely not the same man, but then he also says it was raining on Monday, and that the man outside Helen Yardley's house had a wet umbrella with him. We know this is not true – there was no rain and none was forecast. Even if Helen Yardley's killer concealed his gun inside a fastened umbrella, that umbrella wouldn't have been wet. I think we're going to have to write off the Whites, mother and son, as being among the most unhelpful witnesses that have ever hindered our progress. Nevertheless, the cards in the pockets are a firm link between Baldy and Helen Yardley's murder, so at the moment he's our best bet.'

Baldy?
thought Simon. Had the Snowman looked in the mirror lately?

‘Why would he use a gun for Helen Yardley and a knife for Sarah Jaggard?' a young DC from Silsford called out. ‘And why attack one in her home and the other outside a shop? It doesn't fit in with the sixteen numbers in their pockets. That's typical serial, but the change of method and setting . . .'

‘It's not the same man,' said Gibbs. ‘Stella White said darkish hair, twice – to DS Kombothekra and then to me.'

‘Shave your head tonight, DC Gibbs. We'll see if you've got enough hair by this time next week to be described as darkish.'

‘You're not serious, sir?'

‘Do I strike you as a frivolous sort of person?'

‘No, sir.'

Simon raised his hand. ‘If I can respond to the point about serial—'

‘I don't know if you can, Waterhouse. Can you?'

‘The attack on Sarah Jaggard wasn't a success. He was interrupted before he'd finished with her. With Helen Yardley, he decided to do it differently, better: in her house, husband safely out at work, gets her all to himself for a whole day, no one to disturb them, and shoots her at the end of it. The repetitive part, the signature that's typical of serials: that's the cards with the numbers on. That's the focal point for him, and it would have provided enough continuity to allow him to be flexible about the details.'

‘I'll take that as an application for the post of in-house profiler, Waterhouse.'

‘We've been wondering why the killer might turn up at 8.20 in the morning, stay all day and only shoot Helen Yardley at 5 in the afternoon.' Simon went on.

‘And it's looking highly likely that's when she
was
shot,' Proust chipped in. ‘The post-mortem gives us a ninety-minute window: 4.30 to 6. Deaf Beryl Murie did us proud.'

‘Extrapolating from what we now know, might the killer have been doing to Helen Yardley what he did to Sarah Jaggard, only for longer?' Simon suggested. ‘“Tell me the truth. You did kill your babies, didn't you?” She'd have said “No, I'm innocent,” for as long as she could hold out, then panic would have taken over. He'd have been telling her she'd only live if she told the truth, and she'd take that to mean he wanted her to confess to guilt. She'd have said anything to stay alive: “Yes, I killed them”. He says, “No, you didn't. You're lying. You're telling me what you think I want to hear. You didn't kill them, did you? Tell the truth.” “No, I didn't kill them. I told you I didn't kill them but you didn't believe me.” “You're lying. I know you killed them. Tell the truth.” And so on.'

‘For eight and a half hours?' said Sam Kombothekra.

‘A chilling performance, Waterhouse. I particularly liked the manic glint in your eye as you delivered the psychopath's lines. Can you account for your whereabouts on Monday?'

‘Why would he have kept it up for so long?' asked Gibbs. ‘He'd have been able to see within half an hour that she was changing her tune every time he got angry and accused her of lying.'

‘Maybe he thought if he kept it up for long enough, she'd see that changing her story back and forth wasn't getting her anywhere, wasn't getting rid of him or putting a stop to the fear,' said Simon. ‘He hoped she'd settle on one or the other – guilty or innocent – and wouldn't contradict it no matter what he threatened her with. Whichever she fixed on, he'd know it was the truth.'

‘And we enter the realm of fantasy,' Proust intoned.

‘In that situation, most people wouldn't be capable of rational thought,' said Klair Williamson. ‘You wouldn't be calm enough to think, “Right, telling him what I think he wants to hear isn't working, so from now on I'll stick to the truth.”'

Simon disagreed. ‘If someone holds a gun to your head and keeps ordering you to tell the truth or else he'll kill you, eventually you're going to tell the truth. You've tried lying to please him—it's got you nowhere. Pretty soon your terror convinces you that he
knows
the truth, so you daren't lie any more.' Simon was pleased to see a few people nodding. ‘We don't know much about this man, so we can't afford to ignore what he's told us himself, via Sarah Jaggard: all he wants is the truth. She said he kept saying that. If he's the same man who killed Helen Yardley—and I think he is—he spent the whole of Monday trying, literally, to scare the truth out of her.'

‘And killed her at five o'clock because . . .?' asked Rick Leckenby.

‘He failed.' Simon shrugged. ‘Maybe Helen refused to give him an answer. Maybe she said, “Go ahead, shoot me if you want to, but I'm not telling you anything.” Or maybe she told him the truth and he didn't like it, so he killed her anyway.'

‘I just can't see it going on like that for eight and a half hours,' said Sam Kombothekra. ‘Maybe one, or two . . .'

‘Let's get back to work,' Proust said pointedly. ‘Before Waterhouse is tempted to build a leisurely lunch and siesta for the killer into his fantasy. Felicity Benson, thirty-one years old, single.' He tapped the name on the whiteboard. ‘Known as Fliss. She lives in Kilburn in London and works for the TV production company Binary Star. She's supposed to be taking over Laurie Nattrass's documentary, the one about, among others, Helen Yardley. On Wednesday—two days ago—she opened an envelope addressed to her at work and extracted from it a card that made no sense to her, with our friends the sixteen numbers on it. She showed it to Mr Nattrass, who threw it in his office bin. Sadly, it's well on its way to a landfill by now; the chances of our finding it are zero. Miss Benson is alive and well, and I've asked for some resources to be devoted to keeping her that way. The higher-ups are stalling, as I knew they would. In the meantime, Miss Benson has agreed to stay with a friend and spend no time alone apart from when answering a call of nature, at which times the friend should remain close at hand.'

Proust paused for breath. ‘I believe this young woman's in danger.'

No one disagreed.

‘However, to play devil's advocate for a moment, there's clearly a variation here as well as a link,' he went on. ‘The card is part of a pattern, but Miss Benson simultaneously breaks the pattern by having been neither attacked nor killed, which is why Superintendent Barrow isn't authorising protection. Strange logic on his part, since protection, as I understand it, is preventative and future-focused. Perhaps if Miss Benson were already dead, Superintendent Barrow would see fit to protect her.' The Snowman ran his hand over his shiny head. ‘That's about it for now. Without neglecting any previously assigned tasks, we need to pursue the Wolverhampton angle – we might hit the jackpot and get Baldy on CCTV. We still need brands and suppliers for the card, the pen, the ink. Top priority is drafting something for the press. Oh, and we need a telegenic volunteer we can put in front of the cameras. That's you, Sergeant Kombothekra – your own fault for having clean hair and a winning smile.'

‘What about the third woman featured in Nattrass's documentary?' Klair Williamson called out.

‘Rachel Hines,' said someone.

‘Has anyone contacted her to see if she's been sent the same numbers?' Williamson asked.

Proust packed up his files and headed for his office as if she hadn't spoken.

‘One of you had better explain to me and explain fast about Laurie Nattrass and Rachel Hines, in a way that makes sense this time. Where are they?'

Clever, thought Simon. Making it their fault instead of his: the hurried account they'd given the Snowman was so garbled, he could hardly have presented it at the briefing. How could he have answered Klair Williamson's question, when he had so little information? And whose fault was that? The select few doubled as the scapegoats.

‘I've told you everything I know,' Simon said. ‘Nattrass told me Ray Hines was staying in Twickenham, Angus Hines said she was staying with friends, and Fliss Benson didn't know where she was. Since my first and only conversation with Nattrass, I've been unable to contact him. He's not at his house, at either of his offices . . .'

‘He has more than one?' Proust's eyebrows shot up.

‘Officially, today's his last day at Binary Star, but he's not there, and he seems to have started at another company already, Hammerhead,' said Colin Sellers. ‘He's not there either, and he's not returning calls. Until we find him, we can't ask him about Ray Hines' Twickenham friends. Her ex-husband's given us a list of her friends, but none are in Twickenham.'

‘We've eliminated Angus Hines for Helen Yardley's murder, sir,' said Sam Kombothekra.

‘In one of his seven offices, was he?'

‘He wasn't, sir. He had the day off on Monday. Between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m. he was in a pub called the Retreat in Bethnal Green with a Carl Chappell. I spoke to Chappell myself, sir – he's confirmed it.'

‘While Judith Duffy was having lunch with Rachel Hines in Primrose Hill.' Proust sucked in his lips, stretching the flesh tighter on his face. ‘Why would you have lunch with the person whose lies turned twelve jurors and one husband against you and deprived you of your freedom for four years? And why would Doctor Despicable wish to dine with a woman she believes is a child murderer? One of you, get her to talk. Maybe she knows something about the Twickenham contingent.'

‘What about her two daughters and their husbands?' Simon asked.

‘Is that premature? No, I don't think it is,' the Snowman answered his own question. ‘I wouldn't put it past them to blame Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard for ruining their mother's life, or their mother-in-law's. Apart from anything else, we can't afford to ignore a suggestion made to us by Laurie Nattrass. If he turns out to be right, we'll never hear the end of it. You never know, one of the sons-in-law might be Baldy himself. Get on to it, one of you. With regard to tracking down Nattrass and Rachel Hines, pursue any link, however tenuous – her lawyers, people she met in prison, his friends and media contacts. Presumably they've both got relatives.'