Kill Me Again Part 13

The young woman's body had been squeezed into a narrow s.p.a.ce between two arches of an old brick railway viaduct in the Castlefield area of the city and was held upright by the cramped s.p.a.ce. The victim's sightless eyes gazed at nothing, the blood from her gashed throat staining her clothes. It had taken a while for her to be found because it was Sat.u.r.day morning and the route under the viaduct led to office buildings that were deserted at the weekend. If it hadn't been for one keen young woman who had decided to put in some extra hours in her new job, the body could have gone undiscovered until Monday morning. As it was, the girl who had found the body was almost hysterical and a pair of paramedics were dealing with her.

Tom stood quietly for a moment, taking in the scene, visualising the moment when the woman's body had been so callously left for some unfortunate pa.s.ser-by to discover. Becky stood silently by his side, waiting for him to give some sign that she should speak. He turned towards her and gave a brief nod.

'All we know up to now,' Becky said, her voice low, 'is that the girl who found her was on her way into work at about eight this morning. She said she hated walking under this bridge because she was always a bit spooked by that gap.'

Becky pointed to the place where the victim's body had been displayed the only word to describe how she had been positioned a s.p.a.ce between two huge brick arches. The woman's body had been pushed in, facing out towards the path, her back against an old supermarket trolley, her throat slit from ear to ear.

A train sped overhead, the vibration seeming to run down the walls and into the earth below. Tom could only imagine what a shock it must have been to see a woman, sitting, staring out onto the road.

Tom crouched down in front of the body. The woman was perhaps in her early thirties. It was difficult to tell because it was clear she had had a hard life. Her skin was pitted with old acne scars, and her top lip was puckered in the way of a heavy smoker. It wasn't easy to imagine how she normally looked because of the hair and the make-up. A long dark wig had been roughly stuck on her head, and it had slipped sideways. Her lips had been painted with bright red lipstick, smudged around the edges.

'He's making a statement,' said Tom. 'He's tried to make her look the same as the first one, so the looks have to be significant. He obviously couldn't find anybody to fit the bill so he's used props the wig, the lipstick. Do we know who she is?'

Becky shook her head slowly. 'No. We couldn't find any identification on her. I hate to generalise, but the micro skirt and high-heeled boots suggest she may have been a prost.i.tute although I know half the girls in Manchester go out looking like this now. But she had a few packets of condoms in her bag different flavours, et cetera, so she could give men what they wanted, I suppose. If she was simply a woman on a night out with friends, she would have had some money on her, and she didn't have a penny, so if she was a prost.i.tute she could only just have started work.'

'Her money could have been stolen,' Tom suggested, although he knew that wasn't the case. He knew exactly what this was. 'Has anybody checked her leg?'

He looked over at Jumbo, who had been keeping unusually quiet. He nodded his large head, his huge creamy eyes sorrowful.

'She's not wearing tights. Her legs look like she's been slapping fake tan on they're a bit orange at the ankles. But at the top of her left leg there are three parallel cuts, deeper than the last one. And I think the doc will confirm that they were made before death this time there's a lot more blood.'

Tom felt the woman's pain for a moment and left the tent, walking away from the scene. He needed to think. A few metres away a narrow track led down from the path to the ca.n.a.l. He wasn't sure if it was still the Rochdale Ca.n.a.l or the Bridgewater he would need to get a map to clarify that. The area was crawling with ca.n.a.ls. He wondered why the woman hadn't been disposed of where she was unlikely to be discovered. It had to be because the victims both of them were intended to be found. They were a message to somebody. Last time there was a third victim, although fortunately she had managed to save herself. Was this one going to be the second of three?

12 years ago early June The incident room was filling up. It was time to admit that the team was floundering. They had two murders and an attempted murder, but they still hadn't made any progress. To Tom's surprise his boss suggested they employ a profiler.

'We need someone to tell us who we're looking for what his motives are and where the f.u.c.k he's hiding, because we're making b.u.g.g.e.r-all progress.' DCI Victor Elliot glared at Tom as if it was solely his fault.

Tom ignored the look. A profiler was a good idea, although he still couldn't quite reconcile himself entirely to these murders being the work of one man. The modus operandi was different for each crime the first a slit throat, the second a strangling and the third failed attempt a suffocation. And then there was the Swedish girl's comment that her attacker was being watched.

The incident room was crowded with standing room only at the back when the profiler arrived. A young American woman with cropped white hair and startling green eyes, she had everybody's attention within seconds.

'There are a significant number of irregularities in this case, and if this is one man he's behaved in an inconsistent manner, which concerns me. I've looked at the victimology, and that in itself is unusual. Their backgrounds would be less relevant if these had been opportunistic attacks, but that clearly isn't the case. These were carefully planned killings of strategically selected victims. They were chosen for their looks.'

'The three lines on the victims' legs are important. Have any of you heard of the "power of three"?' she asked. She cast her eyes around the room and everybody stared back, but n.o.body spoke.

'It's a concept that some people believe in: that the number three stands for that which is solid, real, substantial, complete for example the three dimensions of length, breadth and height which are necessary to form a solid. There are three great divisions that complete time: the past, the present and the future. Thought, word and deed complete the sum of human capability; animal, vegetable, mineral the three kingdoms of the natural world. I could go on. For some people, three is such a powerful number that everything has to be finished in threes for them to feel safe. A famous physicist, Nicola Tesla, was so obsessed with the number that he used to walk round the block three times before he would enter a building.'

She paused and again looked around the room, taking them all in, but her gaze settled on Tom, who instantly felt guilty about his scepticism.

'If this is his driver, he will try to kill one more girl to replace the failed attempt. She will look like the other three, but this time he will be sure to finish the job. I'm using "he" throughout this presentation because, as we know, the chances are that the killer is a man. However, "he" could just as easily be more than one man.'

She paused and every eye was on her.

'But there's another theory that fits the profile. I would like to suggest to you that there was only one victim that mattered to the killer. Only one person who had to die. The others were decoys, added to confuse us. Three may have been chosen as the best number to ensure the police were chasing their tails trying to find a link between the victims when there isn't one. And if only one of them had to die, the most important job is to work out which of them it was.'

Tom continued along the ca.n.a.l bank. Twelve years ago he had waited to see whether another victim would be found, and it had never happened. Did that mean that n.o.body else had died, or simply that the other body or bodies had not been discovered? And were there going to be three this time too three women, but potentially only one for whom there was a motive for murder? And if so, which?

The problem with motives was always the same. What seemed clear and right to the killer could be meaningless to anybody else, and guessing motive was like guessing the outcome of the National Lottery.

He couldn't forget the misidentification of the first victim this week, and he couldn't drive Leo's face from his mind. Was she going to be the next victim, and if so was she the real target? Leo, where are you? He was no nearer finding her. Had the woman standing opposite police headquarters been Leo, and had he missed the chance of helping her? The only thing he knew for certain was that somebody had sent flowers to her, and that somebody was not Julian Richmond, whom Tom believed when he said he had no idea where Leo was. And what had happened to the flowers?

Tom tried to convince himself that Leo's similarity to the other women was purely coincidental, and that of course she wasn't going to be the next victim. But he didn't believe in coincidence. Years of experience had taught him that to dismiss anything as coincidence was a sure way of missing something vital. It was a lazy excuse for not investigating things properly, and he wasn't going to put Leo's life at risk.

As if to jerk him back to the present, Tom heard Becky shouting to him, and he turned and climbed back up the hill towards the crime scene, more certain than ever that Leo was in serious danger but not knowing from whom, or why. He needed to talk to Ellie. Maybe Leo's sister would have some idea.

31.

When Maggie woke up on Sat.u.r.day morning after a pitiful couple of hours of restless sleep, she turned onto her side and reached out for Duncan, expecting to find his warm naked back waiting for her to cuddle up to. But the other side of the bed was empty, and the memory of the last two days. .h.i.t her like a stone. Her eyes swam with hot tears and she buried her face in the pillow.

Her resolve to call the police had wavered during the night. While she and the children had been eating their pizzas the evening before, she had admitted to Josh that she was a bit worried about his daddy, and Josh had seemed relieved that finally she was telling him the truth.

'So am I, Mummy, but he'll be back. He loves us,' Josh had said.

'I know he does, Joshy. I suppose we need to trust him right now.'

The words she had spoken to Josh kept piercing her thoughts. She did need to trust him. But was that the right decision?

'I don't know, I don't know,' she sobbed. She wanted life back the way it had been, and she knew that the moment the police were involved, any chance of that was gone forever.

She pushed her tired limbs up and out of the bed and shuffled into the bathroom with barely the energy to lift her feet. After five minutes standing under a blast of hot spray from the shower she began to feel alive again. The dull ache of loss was still there, but it was starting to feel like an old friend. She was getting used to it.

Leaving the children to sleep on, she went downstairs and made a strong cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, her chin resting on one upturned palm. Was there anything else she could do that she hadn't thought of that might help her unravel the mystery of who Duncan was? She had one idea, but only one.

She pulled her laptop across the table towards her and found the picture she was looking for a rare photo of Duncan taken when he wasn't looking. He was convinced he wasn't very photogenic, but Maggie had always thought that was nonsense. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out the article from the Manchester Evening News. Carl Boardman was a friend of the lad who had been knocked over and killed. Were they friends of Duncan's?

Maggie logged onto Facebook, found Carl Boardman's page and sent him a message, asking if he knew the man in the attached photo. She gave a rather weak excuse that she was trying to track this man down, and she had remembered he had a friend called Carl Boardman. Carl seemed fairly active on Facebook, so she was hopeful of a quick response. She knew how unlikely a positive response was, but she couldn't sit here and do nothing.

She looked at the printout and read again about the amazing woman who had fostered all those children. If and it was a big if Duncan had kept a page from a newspaper, in theory the article of interest could be on either side of the sheet, so Maggie decided to check if Patricia Rowe had a Facebook page. She was probably well into her seventies by now, but it was worth a try.

As she trawled through the inevitably long list of Patricia Rowe entries she spotted the letters MBE next to a photo of an elderly lady surrounded by children. She had found her. Mrs Rowe didn't seem to post much herself but shared posts from other, much younger people, and Maggie guessed the lady was keeping tabs on the children she had looked after. There were no posts shared for the past two months, though.

One old post made Maggie's eyes fill with tears.

To my lost children: if you are reading this, please get in touch. I loved every one of you when you lived with me, and I need to know if you are all right now. You're all equally special to me, so I will continue to post this message on Facebook in the hope that you will call me. My number hasn't changed, nor has my address. Here are some pictures to remind you of the happy times. With love always, Pat.

Linked to the post were a number of alb.u.ms, and Maggie could see they focused on children of various ages. She was sure Patricia Rowe would have been a great person to know. She decided to send her a message with a picture of Duncan too, but again she didn't hold out much hope of a positive response.

By late morning, Maggie had heard back from Carl Boardman. He said he didn't recognise the face she had posted he didn't know the guy. So that avenue was closed for now. And there was nothing from Patricia Rowe. It wasn't a surprise, but it was frustrating.

She was about to close her computer and go and find the children when she heard a crash. It had come from the garage.

Her heart thumped.

She leapt up from her chair, ran to the garage door and stopped. Who was in there?

She was about to turn back into the house and make sure the children were safe when she heard a noise. It sounded like a sob.

Josh.

Maggie flung the door open. Josh was lying on the floor, Duncan's bike on top of him.

'Josh,' she shouted. 'Are you okay?'

Maggie rushed forward and lifted the mountain bike off him.

'What happened?' she asked as she pulled him to his feet. He was clearly not hurt just upset with himself.

'I was trying to get the bikes down off the wall. I was going to ask if we could go for a ride. But yours was caught around Daddy's, and when I tried to get it down, it pulled Daddy's off and it fell on top of me.'

Maggie pulled Josh towards her and gave him a cuddle. She looked at Duncan's bike and had a sudden flash of memory. On his thirtieth birthday she had told Duncan to go into the garage, and there was his present a beautiful new bike, the one he had wanted for ages. She remembered the surprise and pleasure on his face, and the happiness of that day.

Duncan's old bike had been quite a sight. The main frame was yellow, but the bit at the front, which he told her was called the suspension fork, was red, and the back bit the seat stay, Dunc said was bright green. He had built it from spare parts.

There was just one thing that clouded the perfection of the memory. She had told the children that Daddy had won races on his old bike, and Josh ever fascinated by detail had quizzed Duncan about where, when and were there photos? Perhaps they were online. Josh wouldn't shut up, and Duncan had lost his temper.

At the time, Maggie had been cross with Duncan, but it was soon over and they had all gone out for a birthday tea. Now, though, Maggie realised that like everything in Duncan's past, she only had very sketchy details about his cycling success, and the races had never been mentioned again.

32.

By late Sat.u.r.day morning the incident room was buzzing. Becky had been right about the body they had found that morning: the victim's name was Mich.e.l.le Morgan, and she was known to the police. According to the vice team, she had been around for years and they considered her to be smarter than most of the girls. She had always been fairly astute at judging which cars to get into and which to avoid.

She had obviously got it wrong this time, but this suggested that whoever's car she had got into, she hadn't considered him to be a threat.

She was found well away from her own patch, which was apparently the eastern part of central Manchester around Piccadilly station, on the roads that ran under the railway lines. Tom couldn't help thinking it was strange that the body had been moved to Castlefield when the first body had been found so close to Mich.e.l.le's preferred working area.

According to Jumbo, the woman hadn't been killed in situ. There was no blood in the vicinity of her body, although there was plenty on her clothes. She had to have been transported to the position under the railway arches after death, most probably some time during the early hours of the morning. The body had now been taken to the mortuary, and the team had begun the examination of the shopping trolley against which her body had been displayed.

Tom hadn't expected to get any update until the forensic investigation of the site was complete, so he was surprised when a clearly excited Jumbo called. 'Tom, I think we might have something here. There's something I'd like to show you, if you can spare the time.'

Castlefield was only a ten-minute drive for Tom and Becky, and if Jumbo thought it was significant, Tom was only too happy to return to the scene.

Crime scene investigators were crawling all over the place, but one item was centre stage, and Jumbo was standing guard by its side.

'Take a look at the shopping trolley,' he said, his wide smile back in place now the body had gone. 'Look at its position in relation to where the body was situated. I think it was supposed to look as if it had been abandoned, but it's not been here long.'

'How do you know?' Becky asked.

'Look down here.' Jumbo pointed to where two wheels were missing. 'The body of the trolley is made of zinc-coated steel. Zinc corrodes over time, but it doesn't rust like steel. Now look at where the wheels have been broken off. You can see the bare steel, and it's not rusty. I think the wheels were broken off on purpose and very recently. We're supposed to think this is just an old abandoned trolley, but what if they wheeled the body here in it and then broke the wheels off, thinking we would disregard it as junk? We'll check it for blood, but if it is related, it's good news.'

Tom knew exactly what Jumbo meant. If the trolley had been used to transport the victim's body, the killer couldn't have brought her far. It gave them a different search area than if, for example, she had been brought here by car. They knew she hadn't been killed in situ, so if she had then been put into the trolley and pushed, they could start searching likely places in the vicinity. And if they checked out where the trolley had originated, it might give a geographic profiler something to start with.

Tom looked around for likely places for the murder to have been committed. There were too many, that was the problem. The arches under the railway lines were largely occupied by car repair companies and the like, and any one of the premises could be the site of the murder. They would all have to be searched.

'There's something else, Tom,' Jumbo said. 'When we were checking out the first victim, there were some wheel marks in the mud in the tunnel that could easily have come from a trolley like this. The marks were unclear because there were puddles and stony areas on the path, but we managed to get a couple of good sections. You were concerned about one man carrying a deadweight, but what if he didn't? What if he wheeled her there?'

Tom remembered them thinking the same thing twelve years ago when Sonia Beecham's body was found on Pomona Island.

'That would take some nerve, wouldn't it?' Becky said, her face displaying her incredulity.

'No more than carrying the victim over your shoulder. Either way, if somebody sees you, you've got a dead body with you. If she was in a shopping trolley you could at least cover her up with a bit of carpet or something make it look as if you're moving some stuff around.'

If the two victims had been murdered in the same location, though, the killer would have needed more than a shopping trolley to transport them. There was about a mile and a half between the locations at which the bodies had been found. Somehow Tom couldn't see anybody trundling through the streets of Manchester with a dead body in a shopping trolley, even with an old rug covering it. If it turned out that the trolley had been used in both crimes, that suggested the killer had a van of some kind something that you could fit a trolley into. Then he could get close to his chosen place, stick the body in the trolley and push it the last few metres.

It was one more thing to add to their list the suspicion that this man had a van.

'Becky, let's get somebody on to tracing the supermarket trolley. I don't know how many stores from this chain there are around Manchester. Let's get them all on a map and see if it helps. Then contact them and see if they have any video of trolleys being nicked by somebody in a van.'

'I don't suppose he's left a pound coin in the trolley with a nice fat fingerprint, has he?' Becky said with a grin.

Tom laughed. He wished life was so easy.

Fortunately for Tom, he and Becky had arrived at the murder scene in different cars so he didn't have her driving to contend with on the way back to the incident room. This meant he was able to spend the time thinking, rather than clinging for dear life to the grab handle as Becky swung her car between lorries, buses and trams.

He tried to focus on the two dead women, but the resemblance of the first to Leo, and then the rather pathetic attempt to make the second look similar was unnerving him. The message was clear. If the profiler had been right all those years ago, three was the key number. She had offered an alternative perspective, though that two of the three were merely to confuse the police and were effectively motiveless murders. So in searching for motive with the two women who were already dead, were they wasting their time? Was one of these two the 'real' victim, or was that going to be the third woman?

If the second theory was right, Tom's every instinct said the crucial murder had not yet taken place. Hayley Walker didn't appear to have any enemies, and the latest victim didn't even look like Hayley she had been made up to resemble her. So why go to all that trouble with the second one unless it was a warning to somebody else? It would also explain why the bodies had been put on show. Twelve years ago Sonia Beecham and Tamsin Grainger had been left sitting upright, but in less public places where they were unlikely to be discovered immediately. This time, the killer wanted both girls to be found quickly.

The thought that the third victim could be Leo was tormenting him. He couldn't think of a reason why anybody would want to kill her, but that meant nothing. She was out there somewhere. He could feel it. He knew it with every bone in his body. He just didn't know where, and he didn't know where to start looking.

12 years ago - June 'Douglas! My office,' the boss shouted from his open door.

Tom had a feeling this wasn't going to be a happy meeting. He picked up his files and made his way into DCI Victor Elliott's office, closing the door behind him.

'What have we got on the dead girls?' the DCI asked before Tom had a chance to sit down.

Tom pulled up a chair to the visitor's side of the desk.

'Plenty of background, that's for sure. Particularly Tamsin Grainger. She was a popular girl, although from what I can tell she was more popular with the lads than with other girls.'

The DCI's mouth turned up at the corner in a lecherous sneer. 'Bit of a tart, was she? No need to be shy, Douglas. Tell it like it is.'

Tom wasn't being shy; he just wasn't inclined to make an a.s.sumption without the evidence to back it up.

It irritated him that his boss called everybody by their surname. Perhaps he thought it made him sound as if he had been to some posh school where surnames were the accepted form of address, but he had been to the local comprehensive like everybody else in the office.