Текст книги "Cold Kill"

Автор книги: Neil White

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 10 страниц]

‘So do you fancy that drink now?’ Joe asked.

‘I should be getting home,’ she replied.

‘Bobby will still be there later on.’

Laura wavered, and when Joe raised an eyebrow and smiled, she relented. ‘Come on then,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’ve time for one.’

Chapter Fourteen

Jack checked the clock. Just gone nine. Bobby was playing on the floor with some action figures, talking to himself, playing out a scene. He should be in bed, but Jack wanted him to see Laura before he went to sleep.

The piece on the murder had long been submitted, and so he was idling, lying down on the sofa, just waiting for Laura. Johnny Cash boomed out of the speakers, as usual, the Orange Blossom Special album, boxcars and railroad drum rhythms, but it gave the house an energy that he didn’t feel.

There were some wedding magazines on the coffee table, with brochures for venues tucked in like bookmarks. Jack reached over for one, knowing that they had to start making some decisions, but as he flicked through the glossy shots, it didn’t hold any interest for him.

Bobby looked up and smiled, and Jack saw Laura in him for a moment, with small dimples in his cheeks.

‘What time is Mummy coming home?’ he said.

‘Soon,’ Jack said, although he didn’t know whether that was true or not. He knew that she would be tied up for most of the night, the first days of a murder are like that, where all the hope is for a quick hit, but the day had long since gone.

He pulled his phone from his pocket to call Laura, just to see if she was going to be much longer, but he paused. She might be in a meeting, or driving. And was he ringing for updates, ever the reporter, or was he just missing her, wanting to hear her voice? Or was it worse than that; was he just bored?

The album played itself out and the house fell silent again, except for the creak of the stylus arm as it moved slowly across to its resting place. Jack listened to Johnny Cash because it reminded him of his father. He had been killed a few years earlier, but he had spent his life collecting and playing Cash records. In the line of duty was the phrase they had used when he died, although Jack didn’t think he’d volunteered for that part of the job. And it wasn’t just the songs that brought his father close again. It was the album sleeves, the paper inserts, the orange Columbia labels. Jack kept his memory alive by driving his car and blowing the fluff from the stylus.

He turned back to Bobby, who was engrossed in his game once more. Bobby made them a proper family, but Jack knew the truth: if he parted with Laura he would just become a distant memory to Bobby, despite the years he’d put in. It would mean nothing in the end, because they were bound only by Laura.

And there had been some rocky patches. Laura took a long time to settle in the north, and their first couple of years had seemed like a constant battle with Geoff, Bobby’s father, who was still in London and wanted Bobby nearer to him. There had been arguments, and when things had got really strained, Jack could see Laura’s uncertainty about life in the Lancashire hills.

But they loved each other, and so far that had taken them through the difficult times. Jack hoped that their marriage would settle any doubts she might have left.

His melancholy was interrupted by the rumble of a car engine. He sat up and looked towards the window, expecting it to be Laura. He groaned. It was Dolby, his Jaguar making Jack’s Stag look shabby and old. As he climbed out of the car, Jack felt his hackles rise. He tried to stop it, knew that it was an ego thing, because Dolby looked like he could fall into just about anything he wanted. His jeans were designer, and as he walked to the door he threw on a linen jacket. One quick run of his fingers through his long blond locks and then he knocked.

Jack forced a smile as he opened the door. ‘It’s late, Dolby. What have I done to deserve this visit?’

‘Jack, don’t be like that,’ Dolby said, his hands spread. Wide grin. Perfect white teeth. Only to be expected. ‘I was in the area, and so I thought it was a good time to talk.’

Jack stepped to one side and let him go past, until Dolby turned round and said, ‘It might be better if we spoke alone.’

Jack bent down to ruffle Bobby’s hair and whispered in his ear that it was time to go upstairs. Once they were alone, Dolby sat down on the arm of the sofa. Jack didn’t object. It made Dolby look like he wasn’t staying long.

‘How’s the press conference piece?’ Jack said.

‘It’s good, and it’s on the website, but we need more than that now,’ Dolby said.

Jack was confused. ‘What do you mean?’

Dolby smiled in that condescending way that he had. ‘Jack, it’s old news now, and you know what sells newspapers? Anger, that’s what. People are dying and the police can’t catch the killer, but people can get that from the internet. What about a campaign? Make the people scared. We need to make the paper stand for something again.’

‘And that something is spreading fear?’ Jack said, surprised. ‘The police shouldn’t have to spend their time combating the press, they should spend it catching the killer.’

‘How very fucking noble of you,’ Dolby said, flicking at his hair. ‘Nobility doesn’t keep the paper afloat. The world’s changed, Jack. It’s a tough economy for local papers. You know how it is. It was hard enough before the banks sent us all down. We’re in a different news culture than the one you trained in. It’s instant now, and so we have to do something different. I want to run a campaign, getting at the police, asking why this killer is still loose.’

Jack held back his first response, that he didn’t need a lesson in newspaper politics. Instead, he said, ‘You know it’s difficult for me. Laura’s on the murder squad, for Christ’s sake.’

‘So that’s a no, is it?’ Dolby said, his eyes wide, and Jack guessed the subtext, that there were plenty of eager young hacks getting ready to step in, and that it wasn’t just the one story that was up for grabs.

Jack sighed. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said quietly.

Dolby slapped his legs with his hands and jumped to his feet. ‘Good man, I knew you would. Can you get something to go in tomorrow?’

Jack pointed at the clock. ‘It’s too late.’

Dolby shook his head. ‘I’ve held back the front page. We’ve got the headline set, with a picture of the crime scene. We need just two hundred words to go underneath.’

‘How soon?’

‘An hour.’

Jack sighed, and then he shrugged and nodded.

Dolby slapped him on the back and went towards the door. Just as he got there, Jack said, ‘Just one condition.’

Dolby turned round. ‘Name it.’

‘Print it under a different byline. For the sake of my pending marriage, if it ever happens, I could really do with Laura not knowing.’

Dolby flashed that grin again. ‘No problem.’

As the door closed, the silence that descended felt heavy, because Jack knew he’d just promised to undermine Laura’s investigation.

He went to the computer and navigated to the Telegraph’s website. The write up from the press conference had attracted some interest. Forty-eight comments. Maybe it was the Simon Cowell effect, but it seemed like a story wasn’t really a story until everyone knew what Bert from Burnley thought of it all. He flicked through them anyway.

The first few were expressions of sadness, but then the identity of the woman must have leaked out. Jane Roberts. It meant nothing to Jack at first, but when the posts turned nasty and he saw the name of Jane’s father, Don Roberts, he wondered whether there was more to the story than a random attack. Jack was a crime reporter, and so he had heard the name Don Roberts bandied around. Don never turned up on the court lists, but there were always whispers and hints that he was the big man around town.

Jack stopped reading when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen told him that it was Laura.

‘How’s your day going?’ Jack said.

‘Are you speaking as Jack the boyfriend or Jack the reporter?’

‘Jack the boyfriend,’ he said, laughing.

‘Long,’ she said, ‘and about to get a lot longer.’

‘What time are you coming home?’

Jack heard the fatigue in her voice as she said, ‘I don’t know, Jack. I’m sorry. That’s why I’m calling. The post-mortem is tomorrow, and so we are going to have a briefing and then see how the night looks.’ She paused, and he heard her steel herself before she said, ‘Say goodnight to Bobby for me.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘And I’ll wait up for you,’ and as they said their goodbyes, he glanced over to the kitchen and remembered the wine that had been in the fridge for a couple of days. It was no way to fill the slow hours, because the hill only ever slopes downwards, but just then, it seemed the right thing to do.

Laura clicked off her phone and looked at Joe, who noticed the clench of her jaw and raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Why didn’t you just tell him that we were going for a drink?’ he said.

Laura paused as she thought about this. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It’s Bobby. I should be there for him.’

‘Having a career doesn’t make you a bad mother,’ Joe said.

Laura looked at Joe. He looked thoughtful, his brown eyes soft. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I just feel like I don’t do enough for him.’

‘That’s natural, but he’ll grow up proud of you, because of what you do. It all comes good in the end.’

She reached out and touched his hand, gave it a squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and let out a long, slow breath. She looked in the car mirror and teased out her hair, before frowning. ‘I look tired.’

‘You look fine,’ he said.

‘Fine is no good,’ she said, smiling now.

‘Okay, more than fine,’ he said, laughing with her. ‘Attractive, sexy.’

Laura’s blush took over her face. ‘Enough about me. What about you?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When are you going to let a lady sweep you off your feet?’

Joe smiled. ‘I analyse things too much, so nothing seems to happen naturally.’

‘What about Rachel Mason?’ she said.

‘What about her?’ Joe said, his hand paused on the door handle.

‘You know she likes you,’ Laura said. ‘She stares at me whenever I’m with you, as if I’ve trespassed into her territory or something.’

‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘The rest of the squad will be waiting.’

‘Is that your way of avoiding the subject?’ she said.

‘Something like that,’ he said, and stepped out of the car.

Joe was still smiling as she joined him on the pavement. Laura glanced upwards, at the darkness of the sky, and took a deep breath. Getting on wasn’t just about turning up for work. There was this side too, being a squad member.

But why did she feel so reluctant?

She looked at Joe and her smile returned. ‘Your round,’ she said, and then headed for the pub door, Joe close behind.

Chapter Fifteen

He rewound the footage again, as he had done for the last ten minutes.

It was Inspector Carson on the news. A stern look to the camera. We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: that whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. And then the flashback from the press conference three weeks earlier, images of Corley in distress. Oh, he liked that, but when will they be ready to disclose more?

The image was back in his head. Corley’s daughter this time. Less fight than Roberts. A scream and then she was crying. She almost gave up, it had been too easy. Her choice. The wrong choice. She could have walked a different way, or put up more of a struggle, but she chose surrender, as if he was going to maul her and run. He was different. She should have realised.

He was aroused again. His breaths were fast, and he knew he had to look at Jane again, but something wasn’t right, wasn’t how he expected it.

He went to his study, really just something he had crafted from the space under his stairs, so that the slope of the steps was just in front of his face, smoothed out by plasterboard and wallpaper. It was cramped, and so his knees had worn blue marks into the wall where he turned in a tight circle on his chair. He couldn’t move back much, but it was private and felt like somewhere separate from the rest of the house.

He felt the space close in as he shut the door behind him. The light from the screen bathed his face in flickering lights and his head was filled with the soft hum of the computer fan.

Normally he liked the darkness, the confinement, but it wasn’t the same today. Jane was supposed to be the finale, the crescendo, but it didn’t feel any different from before.

He closed his eyes. He could feel the hiss of the pressure release, like a loose valve. He had tried to smother it, but it was impossible, like a song in your head that never stops going round. You can try to ignore it, but eventually the beat gets in your fucking head and you just go with it. But, oh Christ, the thoughts of her. Her look of fright, short squeals, drowned out by his hand, tight around her neck, squeezing, her skin soft, bruised. His breaths came as short gasps, loud in the confined space.

His hand went to his belt, but he stopped himself. Don’t waste it, not here.

He went to the website of the local paper and read the story. He saw the outrage in the comments, but then he read the scorn for Jane. He remembered her differently. The swish of her hair, the soft scent of her perfume as he pressed her down, the roar of his thoughts as he gripped her. The struggle. The fight.

He took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had projects to complete, he knew that now. Jane was supposed to be the last one, but the need was still there. It didn’t feel like he was finished. He needed that final rush, to get somewhere near the intensity of his first time. And he should listen to that need.

But it was hard not to think of Jane. The young woman. Pretty. Scared. The dirt. He had seen the buzz around the station, the big shirts wheeled in, and still they didn’t know of the connection. Jane and Deborah. He had to do more.

He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the Blackley Telegraph site to check for the latest comments.

He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.

He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled Blindness.

He started to read:

You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.

Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.

Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.

He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that all women were in danger.

Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.

He pressed the reply button and typed, Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?

He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.

Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:

What is this that I can see,

Cold icy hands taking hold of me,

For Death has come, you all can see,

Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,

He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,

He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,

He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,

And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.

Jack took another drink of wine. It seemed like the story had taken a new twist

Chapter Seventeen

Light streamed through the open curtain, making Jack groan. He lifted his head off the pillow and the bed seemed to shift. He shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of wine, and he could still taste it as he smacked his lips.

He put his hand out, expecting to feel the rise and fall of Laura’s body, or the spread of her dark hair across the pillow, but she wasn’t there. He squinted at the alarm. Eight o’clock. He flopped back onto the pillow. Everything felt heavy, and quick movements sent flashes of pain through his head. He lay back and listened for the sounds of Laura downstairs, chatter with Bobby or the noise of the hairdryer, but there was only silence.

He tried to think through what had happened the night before. He couldn’t remember Laura coming home, but he remembered her weight against him in bed, her naked skin, warm and close. Yesterday’s clothes were discarded on the floor and he could smell the flowery haze of her perfume spray.

He clambered out of bed and shuffled to Bobby’s room, just to check that he was awake. He wasn’t. His dark hair peered out above his England football duvet, a remnant of his World Cup mania from the year before. Jack rubbed his eyes. He would have to rush now, and he didn’t feel much in the mood for speed.

Jack nudged Bobby gently until he stirred and then pointed at his school clothes, set out by Laura.

‘Time to get moving,’ he said, although his voice still had a slur.

It was going to be a slow morning.

Laura threaded her way through the Incident Room, her coffee in her hand, the smell of stale booze hitting her, the remnants of the trip to the pub the night before, everyone more bleary-eyed than the previous day. Mornings were always the toughest part of a murder investigation, because they were no nearer the killer and hours of uncertainty lay ahead.

As she got to Joe, he looked up and smiled. ‘Did you get in trouble for being back so late?’

‘Jack was all tucked up when I got back,’ she said, and returned the smile. ‘I enjoyed myself. Thank you for making me go.’ She took a sip of coffee and then nodded towards some sheets of paper in front of Joe. ‘Is there anything new?’

Joe looked down and then shook his head. ‘Not much to get excited about,’ he said. ‘Just last night’s calls, and unless Don Roberts had a change of heart overnight, all we’ll have today is tips from friends.’

‘So when was Jane last seen?’

‘Last Saturday,’ Joe said. ‘A routine night out, she was supposed to go to a friend’s house. There was a group of girls waiting for her, but she never showed up. They called her house but Don said that he didn’t know where she was and told them not to worry. They went out and forgot about it. Some of her friends texted her, but didn’t think much of it when they didn’t get a reply.’

‘They don’t seem like close friends,’ Laura said.

‘They were used to the disappearing act,’ Joe explained, as he reached for a photograph. ‘It seems like the ex-boyfriend wasn’t that ex.’ He passed her the picture of a young man, good teeth and skin, dark hair teased over his forehead. ‘Adam Carter. They were making like single people, but they weren’t, because they were still an item. They just had to keep it quiet from Don.’

Laura picked up the photograph. ‘Why is that?’

‘We’ll find out later,’ he said. ‘But that’s why Jane’s friends weren’t worried, because they thought she was with Adam.’

‘So is Adam a witness or suspect?’

‘Everyone’s a suspect,’ Joe said. ‘All we know about Adam is that he’s just finished university and is trying to find a job. Jane’s friends seem to like him, but I suppose that doesn’t mean too much.’

‘But if he’s anything to do with Jane’s death,’ Laura said, ‘he’s done it as a copycat, to make us think that Jane was killed by Deborah’s killer. How would a young student find out so much about Deborah’s murder to pull that off?’

Joe smiled. ‘I didn’t say he was high up the list.’

‘At least we’ve got a list,’ Laura said, looking at the picture and then tapping it against her hand. ‘What about her workplace?’

‘The same as with her friends,’ Joe said. ‘She didn’t show up, and when they called home, they spoke with her father. The same answer as before, that he didn’t know where she was but not to worry.’

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why would Don shut everyone out when his daughter was missing? Was his hatred for us more important than finding Jane?’

‘Maybe it is more complicated than that,’ Joe said. ‘People who behave in that way often have something to hide.’

‘What, you think that Don Roberts might be involved?’

‘I don’t know, but we have to look,’ Joe said, and then pointed to two detectives at the back of the room, scouring through papers and then looking at a computer screen. ‘That’s their job.’

‘What are they looking at?’ Laura asked.

‘Just old intelligence reports, to check for any allegations of sexual abuse within his family.’

‘Do you think she was about to expose him?’

‘Maybe there was nothing to expose,’ Joe said, ‘but I would rather we looked and found nothing than not look and miss it. A lot of men who kill their daughters do it because they are about to be exposed. It’s a mixture of betrayal and sexual confusion and downright fear that they are about to be shown up for what they really are. So they lash out.’

‘And stuff their daughter’s vagina with leaves and dirt?’ Laura said, her eyebrows raised.

‘Well, that’s pretty extreme,’ Joe replied, ‘but like with the boyfriend, that would be all part of the cover-up, to deflect attention, to make it look like the murder was done by the same person who killed Deborah Corley.’

‘But we didn’t disclose the details of that murder,’ Laura said.

‘So we need to see if there is a leak anywhere,’ Joe said. ‘Don might have some friends in the police. Yes, he’s a crook and a thug, but some officers think that they might pick up some useful information if they keep their enemies close, but in reality, it’s more than that. There’s a bond, like opponents shaking hands away from the arena. I’ve seen a lot of hardline coppers end up working for defence firms, working hard to keep the crooks free. There is one I know who works as a driver for a defence firm, acting like a taxi for criminals, picking them up and taking them to court.’

‘That sounds demeaning,’ Laura said.

‘It is, but it’s not about the money,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just about finding a way to stay in the game, because as much as the cops like to fight the crooks, they love the game more than anything, and they miss it when they retire.’

‘So you think Don Roberts might have received information about how Deborah Corley died and re-enacted it to pass the blame?’

‘It’s just one more possibility.’

Laura sat down and sighed. ‘This could be never-ending.’

‘Worse than that,’ Joe said. ‘We might only find out that Don Roberts isn’t a copycat killer when someone else dies, because he would be stupid to repeat it, just for effect.’

‘We could arrest him,’ Laura said.

Joe shook his head. ‘You’ll get nothing from him. Even if he’s innocent, he’ll clam up.’

‘So what now? A visit to the boyfriend?’

Joe checked his watch. ‘In a couple of hours from now.’

‘Why so long?’

‘Because we’ve got a post-mortem to attend,’ he said, and then pointed towards the door.

When Laura looked around, she saw Carson beckoning them over. She took a deep breath. The queasy feeling in her stomach told her that it was too early in the day to watch a young woman sliced open.