Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 25

The caravan site wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. Boxy vans in pastel shades squatted on concrete pads surrounded by weary grass and tarmac paths. Some residents had attempted window boxes and flower beds, but the prevailing winds off the bay had defeated them. But as Sam got out of his car, he had to admit the view made up for a lot. A watery sun added charm to the long expanse of sand that stretched almost to the horizon, where the sea twinkled at the fringes of Morecambe Bay. He knew this was a double-crossing beauty. Dozens had perished out there over the years, not understanding the speed and the treachery of the tides. From here, though, you’d never suspect a thing.

Sam made for the office, an incongruous log cabin that would have looked more at home in the American Midwest. According to Stacey, Harry Sim had last used his Mastercard ten days before Danuta Barnes had been reported missing. He’d used to it buy ten pounds’ worth of petrol at the garage two miles down the road from the Bayview Caravan Park. The bill had been settled by a cash payment at a Bradfield city-centre bank three weeks later. Also according to Stacey, this was an anomaly, since Harry Sim normally settled his account by posting a cheque to the credit-card company. How she managed to find out this sort of thing was little short of miraculous, he thought. And possibly not entirely legal.

The billing address for the card had been this caravan site. And that had been the last trace either Stacey or Sam had been able to find of Harry Sim. Computer searches, phone calls to Revenue and Customs, banks and credit-card providers had turned up a big fat zero. Which wasn’t entirely surprising, since Harry Sim had apparently been lying on the bottom of Wastwater for the last fourteen years.

Sam knocked on the office door and walked in, his ID front and centre. The man behind the desk was playing some kind of word game on the computer. He glanced round at Sam, froze the screen and lumbered to his feet. He looked in his mid-fifties, a big man whose bulk had started to sag into fat. His hair was a mixture of sand and silver, too dry to readily submit to brush or comb. His skin had acquired a papery texture from years of salt air and stiff winds. He was neatly dressed in a flannel shirt, a scarlet fleece and dark grey corduroy trousers. ‘Officer,’ he said, nodding a greeting.

Sam introduced himself and the man looked surprised. ‘Bradfield?’ he said. ‘You’ve come a few miles, then. I’m Brian Carson.’ He waved a vague hand at the window. ‘This is my site. I’m the owner.’

‘Have you been here long?’ Sam asked.

‘Since 1987. I used to be a printer, down in Manchester. When we all got made redundant, I sunk my money into this place. I’ve never regretted it. It’s a great life.’ He sounded sincere, which left Sam feeling baffled. He couldn’t imagine many more tedious occupations.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘Because the person I need to ask you about lived here fourteen, fifteen years ago.’

Carson perked up. ‘By heck, that’s going back. I’ll need to look in the records for that.’ He turned and pointed to a door behind him. ‘I keep all the files in the back. Not that I need the files. I pride myself on knowing my tenants. Not the holiday-makers so much, but the ones who keep their vans on, I know all of them. What’s occurred that you’re looking for someone from that far ago?’

Sam gave a lazy, rueful smile, the one that generally got people on his side. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to discuss the details. You know how it is.’

‘Oh.’ Carson looked disappointed. ‘Well, if you can’t, you can’t. Now, what’s the name of this person you’re interested in?’

‘Harry Sim.’

Carson’s face brightened. ‘Oh, I remember Harry Sim. He stuck out like a sore thumb round here. Most of our long-term tenants, they’re older. Retired. Or else they’ve got young families. But Harry was unusual. A single bloke, in his middle thirties, I suppose he must have been. He kept himself to himself. He never came to barbecue nights or karaoke or anything like that. And his unit was right out at the very back. He didn’t have much of a view, but he did get peace and quiet. The units down there are always the hardest to let, on account of they’ve not got the benefit of the bay view.’ He flashed an awkward smile. ‘With a name like ours, that’s what people expect. A bay view.’

‘I imagine,’ Sam said. ‘You said he lived alone. I don’t suppose you remember if he had many visitors?’

Carson was suddenly crestfallen. ‘It’s not that I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ve no idea. Where he was, down at the end there - well, there’s no way of seeing whether people were visiting or not. And in the summer, I know it’s hard to believe, looking at it today, but it’s mayhem out there. There’s no way I could keep track of any individual’s visitors unless they’re right out there where I can see them through the window.’

‘I appreciate that. Did you have much to do with him?’

Carson sank even further into gloom. ‘No. Obviously, when he took up the tenancy, we spoke then, to make the arrangements. But that was pretty much it. He never stopped by for a chat, only came in if there was a problem, and since we pride ourselves here on there not being problems, we didn’t see much of him at all.’

Sam almost felt sorry for the man, obviously so eager to help but with so little to offer. Except that he was the one losing out because of Carson’s deficiency. ‘How long did he live here?’

Carson brightened again. ‘Now that I can tell you. But I’ll have to look at my records to be precise.’ He was already halfway through the door into the back office. Sam could see a row of filing cabinets, then he heard a drawer being opened and closed. Moments later, Carson re-emerged with a slim hanging file. ‘Here we are,’ he said, laying it on the counter. The label on the file read 127/Sim.

‘You’ve got quite a system here,’ Sam said.

‘I pride myself on keeping proper records. You never know when someone like yourself is going to be in need of some information.’ Carson opened the folder. ‘Here we are. Harry Sim took out a year’s lease in April 1995.’ He studied the sheet of paper. ‘He didn’t renew the lease, he only had the unit for the year.’

‘Did he leave anything behind? Any papers, clothes?’ The remains of a life that had been snuffed out by someone else?

‘There’s no note of anything. And there would be if he hadn’t cleared it out, believe you me.’

Sam did. ‘And you’ve no idea when specifically he left?’

Regret on his face, Carson shook his head. ‘No. The keys were left on the table, it says here. But nothing to show how long they’d been there.’

This was looking like a very dead end. Harry Sim had gone, but nobody knew when or where or why. Sam knew where he’d ended up, but not where he’d begun. There was one last question left to try. ‘When he took on the rental, did you ask for references?’

Carson nodded proudly. ‘Of course.’ He pulled out the bottom sheets from the file. ‘Two references. One from the bank and one from his former boss, a Mrs Danuta Barnes.’

To Carol’s relief, Blake was available almost immediately. She was surprised to find him behind his desk in full dress uniform. She’d grown accustomed to John Brandon only wearing the full rig when it was absolutely necessary, much preferring the comfort of a suit. Blake clearly liked to make sure nobody in the room forgot exactly how important he was.

He waved her into a chair, steepled his fingers and leaned his chin on them. ‘What brings you here, Chief Inspector?’

Carol resisted the childish temptation to say, ‘My own two feet.’ Instead, she said, ‘I need you to intervene on our behalf with West Yorkshire.’ She outlined the situation clearly and succinctly. ‘This is a murder inquiry, sir. I haven’t got the time to play silly buggers with my oppo. We need not to waste any more time.’

‘Quite. They should be happy to hand it off to us. It’ll save them money and, if we’re successful, I’ve no doubt they’ll claim at least half the credit. Leave it with me, Chief Inspector. I’ll get it sorted.’

Carol was pleasantly surprised at Blake’s lack of fuss. And that he took her side so readily. But then, there might be serious credit further down the line, which would suit a man with his presumed ambitions. ‘Thanks,’ she said, starting to rise from her chair.

Blake waved her back down again. ‘Not quite so fast,’ he said. ‘These two murders are definitely connected, in your professional opinion?’

She felt a sense of trepidation. Where was he going with this? ‘I don’t think there’s any room for doubt. Identical MO, similar victims, same sort of body dump. It looks pretty clear that Seth Viner was stalked online and we’ve been told something similar went on with Daniel Morrison. We were careful not to release any details of what happened to Daniel, so we can rule out a copycat. I don’t see how it can be anything but the same killer.’

He gave her a small tight smile that bunched his cheeks into a pair of crab apples. ‘I trust your judgement,’ he said. ‘That being the case, what you need to do now is to bring in a profiler.’

Carol struggled with her composure. ‘You told me my budget didn’t run to that,’ she said, her words clipped and tight.

‘I told you your budget didn’t run to Dr Hill,’ Blake said, managing to invest Tony’s name with disdain. ‘What we have access to are the profilers from the National Faculty. Once I’ve dealt with West Yorkshire, I will arrange it.’

‘I can do that, sir,’ Carol said, hastily trying to wrest some control back. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time on admin like that.’

This time, Blake’s smile had an air of cruelty. ‘I’m happy to help,’ he said. ‘You have two murders on your plate. I know how easy it is for things to slip through the cracks when you’re so occupied.’

The bastard was suggesting she’d deliberately ignore an order. Anger fizzed underneath her polite demeanour. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She couldn’t manage a return smile.

‘You’ll be amazed how well you manage without Dr Hill.’

Carol stood up and nodded. ‘After all, sir, we’re none of us indispensable.’

Ambrose had dropped Tony back at the house so he could pick up his car. ‘You’re not planning on going back there tonight?’ Ambrose asked as he unloaded Tony’s overnight bag from the boot. ‘Because if you are, you need to tell the estate agent to call you before she brings more people round.’

‘I won’t be there. I promise you won’t have to bail me out again.’

‘That’s good news.’ Ambrose popped a piece of chewing gum in his mouth and shook his head in a more genial way. ‘Not the best way to start the day. So, what’s your plans now?’

‘I’m going to find a quiet pub where I can sit in a corner with my laptop and write up my profile. I should have it with you late this afternoon. Then I’ll have something to eat, so hopefully I’ll miss the rush hour in Birmingham when I drive back to Bradfield. If that’s all right with you. Obviously, if there are issues with the profile that you need me to resolve, then I’ll stick around. If there’s one thing I’m pretty sure about with this killer, it’s that he’s going to do it again. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you stop that happening.’

‘You really think so?’

Tony sighed. ‘Once they get the taste for it, guys like this need the buzz.’

‘But when we were talking about him dumping the body so fast, didn’t we talk about him maybe doing that because it freaked him out - doing it for real?’ Ambrose leaned against the car, arms folded across his chest, a physical manifestation of his reluctance to accept that they were only at the beginning.

‘That was your suggestion, Alvin. And it was a good thought because it makes sense of the evidence. But my experience says that’s not how it goes. Even if it did freak him out, he’s still going to want to try again. Only this time he’ll want to make it better. So we need to operate like we’re working against the clock.’

Ambrose looked disgusted. ‘I tell you what. I’m glad I’m inside my head and not yours. I wouldn’t want to have all that stuff swilling around all the time.’

Tony shrugged. ‘You know what they say. Find what you’re good at and stick to it.’

Ambrose shrugged himself upright and extended his hand. ‘It’s been an interesting experience, working with you. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it all, but I’ve been very interested in what you have to say about the killer. I’m intrigued at the prospect of working with my first profile.’

Tony smiled. ‘I hope it doesn’t disappoint. You’ve not seen me at my sparkling social best, it’s true. But if I’m honest, I should tell you that life around me does tend towards the bizarre.’ He pointed to his leg. ‘You might have noticed the limp, for example. That was, literally, a mad axeman. One minute I was sitting in my office reading a Parole Board brief; next thing I know, I’m confronting a man with a fire axe who thinks he’s harvesting souls for God.’ His expression was pained. ‘My colleagues seem to avoid these extreme situations. Somehow, I don’t.’

Looking uneasy, Ambrose started to head for the driver’s door. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

Tony waved, then tossed his bag in the car. He hadn’t been entirely truthful with Ambrose. There would be a pub where he was going, but that wasn’t his primary destination. He’d collected more than one set of keys from Blythe’s solicitor. He knew absolutely nothing about boats, but apparently he was now the owner of a fifty-foot steel narrowboat called Steeler which came with its own mooring at the Diglis Marina. ‘Used to be the Diglis Canal Basin,’ the solicitor had said with distaste. ‘Complete with warehouses and Royal Worcester Porcelain. Now it’s got waterside apartments and light industrial and commercial units. The march of time, and all that. All that’s left of the way it used to be is the lock-keeper’s cottage and the Anchor Inn. You’ll like that. It’s a proper, old-fashioned boozer. Arthur was a regular there. They’ve got a traditional wooden Worcestershire skittle alley. He was in one of their league teams. Pop in there and introduce yourself. They’ll be pleased to see you.’

He’d save the pub for another day, he thought as he consulted the map and figured out how to get to the marina. Today he wanted to settle down in a corner of Blythe’s boat and write his profile. Maybe mooch around the boat, see if Arthur had left any clues to himself tucked away there.

He parked as close as he could get to the moorings, then spent ten minutes wandering around looking for the boat. Eventually he found her, tucked away at the far end of a row of similar craft. Steeler was painted in traditional bright green and scarlet, her name picked out in flowing gold and black. Four solar panels were fixed to the roof, tribute to Blythe’s ingenuity. So power wouldn’t be an issue, if he could figure out how to work the bloody thing.

Tony clambered aboard, his feet clattering on the metal deck. The hatch was secured with a couple of sturdy padlocks, whose keys the solicitor had cheerfully handed over. ‘Be good to see the boat properly looked after,’ he’d said. ‘Lovely example of the type. Arthur was a stalwart of all the rallies round the Midlands. He loved messing about on the water.’ That obviously wasn’t something transmitted in the genes. Tony had no affinity whatsoever for water or boats. He didn’t anticipate keeping Steeler for long, but now he’d come this far down the trail, he wanted to experience what Arthur had made of his other environment.

The hatch slid back smoothly, allowing him to open the double doors that led below. Tony climbed cautiously down the high steps and found himself in a compact galley, complete with microwave, kettle and stove. Moving forward, he emerged into the saloon. A buttoned leather banquette sat against one bulkhead, a table before it. A big leather swivel chair sat on the other side, arranged so it could face either the table or the TV and DVD player. In one corner stood a squat wood-burning stove. There were nifty little cupboards and shelving everywhere, making the maximum use of every inch of space. A door at the end led to a cabin containing a double bed and a wardrobe. The final door at the end took him into a compact bathroom, complete with toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle, all gleaming white tile and chrome. To his amazement, it smelled fresh and clean.

He wandered back to the saloon. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this rigid functionality. There was no personality here. Everything was so regimented, so neat and tidy. The effect the house had had on him was completely absent. In a way, that was a relief. There would be nothing to distract him from the profile he had to write. And there would be nothing to deter him from selling it in due course.

In spite of his general cack-handedness, Tony found it pretty straightforward to work out how to access the electricity. Soon, he had the lights on, and power to his laptop. No question, it made a great little office. All it lacked was wireless. For a wild moment, he considered driving the boat through the canal network to Bradfield and using it as an office. Then he considered the books and realised it was impossible. Not to mention the sort of thing that would send the likes of Alvin Ambrose running for the hills. The thought of how many things could go wrong between Worcester and Bradfield was truly terrifying. He’d settle for an afternoon’s work and then send her off to the broker. Did narrowboats have brokers? Or was it an informal network where deals were done over a game of skittles?

‘Get a grip,’ Tony said aloud, booting up the laptop. He loaded his standard opening paragraphs:

The following offender profile is for guidance only and shouldn’t be regarded as an identikit portrait. The offender is unlikely to match the profile in every detail, though I would expect there to be a high degree of congruence between the characteristics outlined below and the reality. All of the statements in the profile express probabilities and possibilities, not hard facts.

A serial killer produces signals and indicators in the commission of his crimes. Everything he does is intended, consciously or not, as part of a pattern. Discovering the underlying pattern reveals the killer’s logic. It may not appear logical to us, but to him it is crucial. Because his logic is so idiosyncratic, straightforward traps will not capture him. As he is unique, so must be the means of catching him, interviewing him and reconstructing his acts.

He read it through, then deleted the second paragraph. As far as they knew, this killer wasn’t serial yet. If Tony could help Ambrose and Patterson do their job, the killer might not get to the crucial ‘three plus’ that officially made him a serial. In Tony’s world, that was what passed for a happy ending.

On the other hand, if they didn’t succeed, there would be more. It was all a question of time. Time and skill. Just because they were in at the start didn’t mean this wasn’t a serial killer. With a sigh, he reinstated the paragraph then continued.

His fingers flew over the keys as he outlined in detail the conclusions he’d already run through with Ambrose at the body dump and earlier in the car. He paused for thought, then got up and explored the galley. He found instant coffee and creamer in jars and when he turned the tap on, water emerged. Cautiously he tasted it and decided it was fit to drink. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he searched for a mug and a spoon. The second drawer he opened contained cutlery. As he reached in to get a teaspoon, his thumb snagged on something. He looked more closely and found a thick white envelope the size of a postcard. When he turned it over, he was shocked to see his name on the front in neat block capitals. Arthur had written DR TONY HILL on an envelope and stuffed it in the cutlery drawer of his boat. It made no sense to him. Why would anyone do that? If he wanted Tony to have something, why leave it here, where it could so easily be missed, and not with the lawyer? And did Tony really want to know what the envelope contained?

He felt the envelope. There was something more than paper inside. Something light but solid, maybe ten centimetres by four, about the thickness of a CD box. He put it down while he made his coffee, constantly aware of its presence in his peripheral vision. He took the coffee and the envelope back to the table where he’d been working and set them down. He stared at the envelope, wondering. What had Arthur chosen to leave in so uncertain a way? And how would it help Tony to know what it was? He was sure there were things he didn’t want to know about Arthur, but unsure what knowledge he did want to possess.

In the end, his curiosity won over his doubt. He ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. There was a sheet of A4 made from the same heavy paper stock as the envelope. And a tiny digital voice recorder, the type Tony used himself these days when he was dictating patient notes for his secretary. He pushed at it with one finger, as if expecting it to burst into flames. Frowning, he unfolded the paper. Across the top, Arthur Blythe’s name was engraved in copperplate script. He took a deep breath and started to read the neat handwriting that covered the page.

Dear Tony, it began.

The fact that you’re reading this means that you’ve chosen not to ignore your inheritance. I’m glad about that. I failed you while I was alive. I can’t make up for that, but I hope you can use what I’ve left you to give yourself some pleasure. I want to explain myself to you but I understand that you owe me nothing and you might not want to hear my self-justification. For a long time, I never knew you existed. Please believe that. I never intended to abandon you. But since I found out about you, I’ve watched your progress with a pride I know I have no right to. You’re a clever man, I know that. So I leave it up to you whether you choose to hear what I have to say.

Whatever decision you make, please believe that I am sincerely sorry you grew up without a father in your life to help and support you. I wish you all kinds of happiness in the future.

Yours truly,

(Edmund) Arthur Blythe

In spite of his determination not to be moved, emotion closed his throat. Tony struggled to swallow, touched by the simple honesty of Arthur’s letter. This was far more than he’d expected and he thought it might be more than he could bear. At least for now. He reread the letter, taking it line by line, feeling the weight of the words, imagining Arthur putting it together. How many drafts had he taken to get it right? His precise engineer’s hand crossing out first and second and third attempts, trying to strike the right note, making sure he said what he meant, not leaving room for misunderstanding. He could picture him in the house, at the desk in his study, the lamp casting a pool of light over his writing hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no clear idea what Arthur had looked like. There had been no photographs on display in the house, nothing to indicate whether father and son shared any physical resemblance. There must be some; he made a mental note to look next time he was in the house.

Next time. As soon as he had the thought, Tony understood its significance. There would be a next time. Something had shifted inside him in the previous twenty-four hours. From wanting to maintain the distance between him and Arthur, he now wanted connection. He didn’t know yet what form that would take. But he’d know when he got there.

What he did know was that he wasn’t ready for Arthur’s message yet. He might never be. But right now, he had work to do. Work that was more important than his own emotional state. He turned back to his laptop and started typing again.

‘The killer is likely to be white,’ he wrote. Almost invariably this kind of killer stayed within their own ethnic group. ‘He is aged between twenty-five and forty.’ Twenty-five, because it needed a level of maturity to engage in this degree of planning and to sustain the plan once the killing started. And forty, because the rule of probabilities stated that by then they’d either been caught, killed or calmed down.

He is not a lorry driver - several of the locations where he has used public-access computers are not convenient for lorry parking, e.g. Manchester Airport and the shopping centre in Telford. But he certainly owns his own vehicle - he would not risk leaving traces in a vehicle owned by a third party. It’s likely to be a reasonably large car, probably a hatchback. I don’t think he’s a commercial vehicle driver, even though that is a hypothesis that has some attractions. It would certainly account for his movements up and down the motorway network. But given the tight schedules of commercial drivers, I doubt whether this would give him the degree of flexibility or free time to have set Jennifer up then abducted her.

He is likely to be educated to university or college level. His awareness of computer technology and his level of familiarity with its possibilities indicates a high level of skill in this area. I believe he is an ICT professional, probably self-employed. The electronics industry is a loosely knit community of consultants who have a great deal of flexibility in their working hours and the locations of the companies they contract to.

In terms of personality, we’re looking at a high-functioning psychopath. He can mimic human interaction but he has no genuine empathy. He’s likely to live alone and to have no deep emotional ties. This will not mark him out as particularly unusual in his work community, since many ICT professionals appear similar although in fact many of them are perfectly capable of emotional interaction. They just prefer their machines because that takes less effort.

He may well be addicted to computer gaming, particularly to violent online multi-user games. These will present him with an outlet for the nihilistic feelings he has towards other people.

Tony read over what he’d written without any sense of satisfaction. Apart from his highlighting of the fact that this was not a sexual homicide, he felt he’d come up with nothing that wasn’t either textbook or plain common sense. There was much more to be deduced about this killer, he was sure of that. But until someone came up with the connection between the killer and the choice of victim, they were all dancing in the dark.