The Death Pictures (11 page)

‘Victim number two,’ began Suzanne. ‘Eleanor Anderson, known as Ellie. 30 years old.’ A photo was pinned to the middle of the second board, a blonde woman, long hair, blue eyes, cute little nose, a crinkling smile. Taken before the rape then, Dan thought. He couldn’t imagine her looking so content now.

‘Attacked in her home in Oaks Lane in Hartley, just after nine in the morning,’ Suzanne continued. ‘The man got in through a partly open window, which he then forced. She got up to see what the noise was and was raped in her kitchen. Her daughter was at school. A witch’s hat was left on the draining board of the sink. She’s also recovering in Tamarside Hospital.’

‘So what do we make of all this?’ asked Adam. ‘All the usual suspects have been seen. That’s thrown up nothing. All the background checks on the two women haven’t given us anyone who might want to attack them. All their male associates have been checked. Again nothing. We’ve got no real leads. So what do we look at now? Where do we go?’

A young uniformed lad at the front spoke quickly. ‘House to house sir?’ Dan looked over and for once appreciated the old cliché. He really did look as if he’d hardly started shaving.

‘Spot on, Andy,’ said Adam, ignoring the shaking heads and smiles from a couple of the older detectives. ‘We’re doing it. In fact, we’ve more or less done it now. Just a few more to go back to. Nothing so far.’

‘The two houses are very close sir, just five or so minutes walk.’ A smartly suited officer, also young, short hair, almost a crew-cut. ‘Could it be someone who lives in the area?’

More hidden smiles from the club of experienced CID. ‘Good thought Mike,’ replied Adam. ‘We’ve got a DNA profile but it doesn’t match anyone in the database. No one in that area has a record of anything that might make them turn into a rapist. But if we don’t get a result quickly, or if there’s another attack, I will consider asking all men there to have a DNA test.’ His eyes roamed the room again. ‘Come on team, more ideas please. This is urgent, he could strike again at any time.’

A woman who Dan recognised from the Bray case spoke. ‘The women are similar ages and profiles, sir. Do you think that’s important?’

‘Yes, Claire, I do. I’m wondering if these attacks were well researched. There was no man in either house. Both women had a child. Let’s have a look at what connects them. Kids’ playgroups, gym, social club, work, friends, anything like that, any connection you can find. You can work with Suzanne on that. And congratulations on the promotion too.’

She blushed as laughter rumbled around the room. Dan noticed Suzanne Stewart didn’t look happy though, she was keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Adam, expressionless.

He took another sly look at Claire, studied her in what he hoped was a subtle way. She was pretty, wasn’t she? A dark bob, his favourite hairstyle. Lovely brown eyes to match. A good figure too, cute and petite in that fitted black trouser suit. Dan glanced over again as she wrote a note on her pad. No wedding ring either... He stopped himself. Didn’t he have enough to think about after last night?

Adam raised his voice. ‘Come on then team, more ideas please. What kind of a man are we looking for?’

‘A woman hater, sir,’ said a chubby, middle-aged, dishevelled looking man towards the back of the room.

‘Yes, Jack, I think you’re right,’ replied Adam. ‘And why do men hate women?’

Some of the older men exchanged looks. Dan could see it in their faces. Divorce, expensive divorce.

‘Relationship break up, mainly,’ said Jack, who was running a finger over his wedding ring.

‘Quite right.’ Adam pointed back to the boards and tightened his tie. ‘So let’s see if these women have been through divorces. Or if they’ve taken their kids against the wishes of their ex-partners. Jack, can you get on to the Family Courts, the Child Support Agency and Fathers for Families to see if they’ve got anyone newly divorced, or who’s been making threats, anything like that. Anyone who’s spare can give you a hand with it. There’s plenty to work through. We’re also checking whether his sperm shows traces of HIV. It’s possible he may be a carrier and blames women for his infection. Any other ideas anyone?’

There was a rumble of ‘no’ and some shaking of heads. ‘A couple of you can see if we can trace where the witch’s hats came from, but I don’t imagine we’ll have much luck with that. I’m going to see if any new leads have come in from the media appeals.’

Adam raised his voice again. ‘So go for it team, and remember. We’re up against the clock on this one. We’ve got an embittered man out there who plans his crimes and fully intends to continue with his game. It’s a game which wrecks lives. He won’t stop, so we’ve got to stop him. He’s taking the mickey out of us and I know you’re not going to stand for that. So let’s go get him. I don’t want to be standing here again telling you about victim number three. If I am, we’ve failed.’

To freshen his report for the lunchtime news and
Wessex Tonight
, Dan and Nigel went filming some of the remaining house-to-house inquiries. ‘Do some chats with local people too,’ Lizzie had said, a four inch stiletto grinding into the long-suffering newsroom carpet. She was never satisfied. They were the only ones who had the interview with Rachel, yet still she wanted more. Dan sometimes thought of her as like a nest of baby birds. No matter how many juicy worms you brought, the beaks were still open and squawking, always wanting more.

The thought cheered him and eased his tiredness. One man wanted to know what was in it for him if he was interviewed. Dan wrote ‘Present this for 10% off your next TV set’ on the back of one of his business cards and signed it. The man laughed and talked about his fears for his 15-year-old daughter and how he insisted on giving her a lift everywhere now. The poor teenager must be chewing glass with embarrassment, Dan thought, being delivered to meet her cool friends in Dad’s rusting Ford Estate. But it was a good interview. It made the point.

Another man gave them the familiar earful of abuse about being parasites. It was an occupational hazard of being a reporter. Dan couldn’t be bothered to argue, just told him he quite understood and that when he got back to the studios he would tell the engineers to lock out the TV signal to his house if it was such an evil. He left the man at his gate, glancing up at the aerial on his roof and looking an entertaining mix of angry and worried. Suddenly he was feeling better.

He did a little address to camera himself with the police inquiries going on in the background. To stamp his authority on the story was the official reason, to grab his slice of the glory was the truth. Many a beer he’d been bought on a night out just for being on the TV. He told the viewers how to contact the police if they had information, through the Crimestoppers number or direct to the MIR at Charles Cross. The graphics unit could generate the number to appear across the bottom of the screen as he talked.

Nigel drove them back to base, and Dan found his mind again drifting to the Death Pictures. Could the riddle be something to do with the Waterside pub? It featured heavily, after all. It was almost the weekend and perhaps Saturday would be well spent with a research visit?

He could pick up copies of all the pictures in town, get a paper too, take the water taxi across the River Plym to Turnchapel, then sit, read and think. If he timed it right, he could spend a few quiet hours in the afternoon getting nicely lubricated, see what he came up with, then be in the mood for the live music they had on a Saturday evening.

The last time there’d been an Elvis impersonator, and didn’t he get up on stage to help perform that version of ‘I Just Can’t Help Believing’? It was a memory he’d buried, and no wonder. All he could remember was a mass of laughing faces. It was always a bad sign when you got a text message from your friends in the morning saying ‘Do you remember what you did last night?’

Yes, the Waterside sounded like a fine idea for Saturday. But then he remembered, he’d promised to take Kerry out. A surge of annoyance needled him. But it was his own fault, wasn’t it?

The edit was simple. The new pictures they’d just shot first, the house-to-house inquiries going on and commentary from Dan about investigations continuing. Then a long stretch of the interview with Rachel. After that, some pictures of the night time patrols, then a clip of Adam, finally his piece to camera.

Lizzie bustled in to the edit suite to watch the report and professed herself ‘pleased’, quite an accolade. She’d changed her shoes and her heels were lower, perhaps only a couple of inches. She kept around half a dozen pairs in a cupboard in her office and had been known to change them several times a day. Dan wondered what had happened to improve her mood. Good viewing figures for last night’s programme was the most likely explanation. She always spent fifteen minutes at lunchtime studying the overnight figures. If she was feeling mellow, perhaps he could he push his luck?

‘Lizzie, I was up most of last night covering the story and I’m feeling whacked. I was wondering if…’

‘Yes, you can,’ she cut in. ‘I wouldn’t want to burn you out. You never know, we might need you. We’ll call you if anything comes up. Don’t turn your mobile off.’

He made for his car before she changed her mind, drove back to the flat and was greeted by the ecstatic ball of flying fur and yelping that was Rutherford. He was planning to have a sleep but didn’t feel too bad, so he decided to take the dog for a run and pick up a copy of the Death Pictures. He could always go to bed early tonight. Rutherford deserved some fuss and he wanted to start thinking seriously about McCluskey’s riddle. The postman had been and Rutherford had chewed a couple of the letters. Dan was amused to see it was only the bills he’d attacked.

He changed into his trainers, shorts and old polo shirt, trying to ignore the smell of stale sweat. He’d have to do some washing soon. Maybe if he charmed a cleaner, she could help with that. They jogged down the hill to the shops on Mutley Plain.

‘Rape Victim Speaks out,’ was the banner headline on one of the
Standard
billboards. Dan stopped and scanned the paper. They’d lifted all the quotes from his interview with Rachel. He wasn’t annoyed. Imitation was flattery, and cannibalism was one of the most common ways journalists found stories. He’d been tipped off by enough of their reports. The newsagents also had a folder of the Death Pictures as they’d been set out in McCluskey’s studio, so he bought one. The quality of the colours was poor, but the detail and the numbers were clear enough. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking the numbers were the key. Why would they be there otherwise?

They ran back up the hill and into Hartley Park, found a stick and played the fetch game for ten minutes while Dan got his breath back. A Dalmatian came sniffing over to Rutherford, who treated her with lofty disdain. At least one of us has some discipline with women, he thought.

‘Go on boy, don’t upset her, she’s keen,’ he shouted at his dog, who came trotting back over with a total lack of interest. Shame, he thought, an Alsatian-Dalmatian crossbreed would be quite a sight.

Back at the flat, Dan took Rutherford down into the garden to brush him. His guilt at neglecting his friend waned as the dog’s eyelids drooped in ecstasy and he began that funny low whine of delight. A gang of sparrows squabbled noisily in the pine tree at the end of the lawn.

Tea was a cheese and ham frozen pizza, which tasted of nothing. He must get to the supermarket sometime soon, he thought. But where was the time? A chore like that would always be at the bottom of the list of things to do. The evening passed easily,
Wessex Tonight
and his report, lead story again. No matter how many times it happened, he always enjoyed watching himself on the television. Then it was Cream on the stereo, a contented dog at his feet and some looking through the Death Pictures. It scarcely mattered that he had no meaningful thoughts of any kind about the solution to the riddle.

At about half past eight, Dan decided to have a relaxing bath and then an early night. He ironed a china blue shirt for tomorrow while it ran. Most of his shirts were varying shades of blue. They went best with his eyes, so a past girlfriend had said. Her words had always stuck with him. It was odd how little things like that sometimes did.

Just as the tub was full and topped with foaming bubbles his mobile rang. Adam. He knew it was trouble before he answered, could sense it. The evening had been too simple and pleasant.

‘Dan, can’t speak for long but you’d better get moving.’

‘Another rape?’

A brief pause. ‘No, thank God, it’s not a rape. It’s McCluskey. He’s dead. In his bath. Wrists cut.’

Dan felt his body tense. He pulled the plug out of the untouched bath and made for his bedroom and the clothes he’d laid out for the morning.

‘In the bath you say? Suicide?’

Another pause. ‘It looks like it. But I’m not sure. His wife says definitely not. She’s distraught. And there’s evidence of a break-in. A window’s been forced.’

Chapter Six

Dan secretly thought of it as his equivalent of those dashing young World War II pilots, hearing the wailing of the siren and sprinting from their mess room, across the airfield grass and into the waiting Spitfires. He knew it was ridiculous, that his little rush to a breaking news story didn’t come anywhere near comparison with the bravery and sacrifice of those who’d died for his freedom, however he couldn’t help but like the image and it was an analogy that always drifted into his mind whenever a scramble call came through. Dan pulled on the newly ironed shirt and some trousers and wedged his mobile under his chin.