The Mermaids Singing

12

Very few men commit murder upon philanthropic or patriotic principles… As to the majority of murderers, they are very incorrect characters.

The four detective inspectors sat stony-faced in what had been Tom Cross’s office as John Brandon gave them the official version of the superintendent’s suspension. Sometimes, Brandon wished he was one of the lads again, able to explain his reasons without appearing to undermine his own position by doing so. ‘What we’ve got to do is put this behind us and move this enquiry forward,’ he said briskly. ‘Now, what’s the score with McConnell?’

Kevin leaned forward in his seat. ‘I did as you instructed, sir. He left our custody just before midnight, and I’ve had a team on him ever since. He hasn’t put so much as a toe out of line so far. He went straight home, seemed to go to bed, judging by the lights. He was up at eight this morning, and he’s gone off to work. I’ve got one lad in the gym, posing as a new member, and another one out on the street.’

‘Stick with it, Kevin. Anything else? Dave, anything interesting coming out of the computer yet?’

‘We’re following up a lot of car numbers and blokes with previous for any gay-related offences, both on the gay-bashing and the gross indecency side. We’re also about to cross-check those lists with the ones Don Merrick’s been getting from travel agents of people who have booked holidays in Russia. Once we get the profile, we might be able to develop some suspects, but it’s uphill at the moment, sir.’

Carol chipped in. ‘Some of the weightlifting associations said they’d supply us with lists of their members who’d either been to Russia or competed against Russian teams.’

Dave pulled a face. ‘Oh goody, more bloody lists,’ he said.

‘I’ve got a contact in the leather business,’ Stansfield said. ‘Biggest importer in the UK. I asked him about the leather scrap and he said that with it being deerskin, it’s probably not your common-or-garden labourer’s jacket. He said it was likely to be someone with a bit of clout but not real power. You know. Somebody like a DI,’ he grinned. ‘Or a town-hall official halfway up the greasy pole. A deputy stationmaster. The second mate on a ship. That sort of thing.’

Dave grinned. ‘I’ll tell HOLMES to keep an eye out for ex-KGB men.’

Brandon started to say something, but he was cut off by the peal of the telephone. He grabbed it and said, ‘Brandon here…’ His face lost all expression, turning as wooden as the coffins he looked as if he should be carrying. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be there right away.’ He put the phone down gently and stood up. ‘The Chief Constable is interested in hearing how this evening’s paper came to look the way it does.’ He crossed the room and paused by the door, one hand on the handle. ‘I’m sure the person who washed our dirty linen in Ms Burgess’s sink will be hoping I can persuade him not to make an example of him.’ He gave Carol a frosty smile. ‘Or her, come to that.’

Tony locked his office door behind him and gave the project secretary a happy wave and smile. ‘I’m going out for a bite of lunch, Claire. I’ll probably go to Cafe Genet in Temple Fields. Inspector Jordan’s due at three, but I’ll be back by then. OK?’

‘You’re sure you don’t want to return one of these calls from the journalists?’ Claire called after him.

Tony swung round, continuing to walk backwards across the office. ‘What journalists?’ he asked.

‘First off, that Penny Burgess from the Sentinel Times. She’s been trying every half-hour since I came in. Then, in the last hour, they’ve been on from all the national newspapers, and Radio Bradfield.’

Tony frowned, baffled. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did they say what they wanted?’

Claire held up the copy of the Sentinel Times she’d nipped out to buy from the campus newsagent. ‘I’m no psychologist, Tony, but I think it might have something to do with this.’

Tony stopped in his tracks. Even across the office he could read the headlines and make out his own photograph splashed across the front page of the paper. Like an iron filing pulled by a magnet, Tony moved closer to the paper till he could read Penny Burgess’s name on both stories. ‘May I?’ he said hoarsely, reaching out for the paper.

Claire relinquished it and watched his reaction. She liked her boss, but she was human enough to relish his discomfort at being exposed in the evening paper. Tony hastily flicked the front page over, hunting for the full story about himself. With a mounting sense of horror, he read:

Dr Hill is well equipped to enter the twisted mind of the Queer Killer. As well as his two university degrees and a wealth of experience in dealing directly with the criminal perverts who have terrorized society, he has a reputation for dogged determination.

A colleague said, ’He’s married to the job. It’s all he lives for. If anyone can catch the Queer Killer, it’s Tony Hill.

‘It’s only a matter of time now, I’m convinced. Tony is relentless. He won’t give up till this bastard is nailed down tight.

‘Let’s face it, Tony’s got a top-class brain. These serial killers might have high IQs, but they’re never very smart when it comes to staying out of custody.’

‘Dear Christ,’ Tony groaned. Apart from the fact that no self-respecting colleague would ever have given quotes like that, the article was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet to Handy Andy. It read like a challenge. He felt sure Handy Andy would find a way to respond to that. Tony threw the paper down on the desk and scowled at it.

‘It is a bit over the top,’ his secretary said sympathetically.

‘It’s bloody irresponsible, never mind over the top,’ Tony raged. ‘Oh, bollocks to it. I’m going for lunch. If the Chief Constable rings, tell him I’ve left for the day.’ He walked off again towards the door.

‘What about Inspector Jordan? What if she rings?’

‘You can tell her I’ve left the country.’ With the door open, he paused. ‘No, only joking. Tell her I’ll be here for our meeting.’

As he stood waiting for the lift, Tony realized nothing in his experience had prepared him for a direct confrontational challenge with a killer. This was one he’d have to fly by the seat of his pants.

Kevin Matthews drained his pint glass and waved it at the barmaid. ‘Even if it is a red herring, he’s still got to have had access to this bloody obscure bit of leather in the first place, hasn’t he?’ he demanded stubbornly of Carol and Merrick. ‘Same again?’

Merrick nodded. ‘I’ll have a coffee this time, Kevin,’ Carol said. ‘And chuck us a menu, would you? I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a long session with the doc, and he’s got a nasty habit of forgetting about food.’

Kevin ordered the drinks then turned back to Carol. With the persistence that had won him promotion, he said, ‘I’m right though, aren’t I? To plant the leather like that, not only has he had access to it, he also knows how unusual it is.’

‘Agreed,’ Carol said.

‘So it’s not a waste of time trying to source it, is it?’

‘I never said it was,’ Carol said patiently. ‘Now, are you going to fill me in on what happened with Tom Cross, or do I have to copy our murderer and bring out the torture gear?’

While Kevin explained what had happened, Merrick’s attention drifted. He’d already heard the tale more times than enough. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the clientele. The Sackville Arms wasn’t the nearest pub to the Scargill Street station, but it sold draught Tetleys from Yorkshire and Boddingtons from Manchester, which inevitably made it the police local. The pub was on the outer fringes of Temple Fields, which had given it an added attraction for the local officers when Scargill Street had still been open. The location had meant that hookers or petty villains who wanted to drop a word in the ear of their personal contact on the force could manage it unobtrusively. However, in the few months that Scargill Street had been mothballed, the pub had subtly changed. The regulars had got used to having the place to themselves, and there was a clearly discernible distance between the coppers and the rest of the customers. The officers who’d been using the pub in an attempt to recruit new sources from the community’s underbelly had met with a chilly reception. Even with a serial killer on the loose, no one wanted to get back into the habit of informing now they’d kicked it.

With his policeman’s eyes, Merrick slowly scanned the room, classifying the drinkers. Hooker, dealer, rent boy, pimp, rich man, poor man, beggar man, wimp. He was jolted out of his scrutiny by Carol’s voice. ‘What do you think, Don?’ he caught.

‘Sorry, ma’am, miles away. What do I think about what?’

‘That it’s about time we developed some of our own snouts among the toms, instead of having to rely on the Vice Squad’s girls. They’ve been round the houses so many times, I’d go outside to check if they told me it was raining.’

‘Never mind the hookers,’ Merrick said. ‘We need to know a damn sight more about how the gay community works. I don’t mean the lads that are out of the closet and down the Hell Hole. I mean the secretive ones. The ones that don’t flaunt it. They’re the ones who might have come across this guy before. I mean, from all I’ve ever read about serial killers, sometimes they don’t actually kill the first time, they just have a go. Like the Yorkshire Ripper did. So maybe there’s some frightened little guy in the closet who’s been on the receiving end of a bit of violence that got out of hand. That might be the road to a break.’

‘And God knows we need a break,’ Kevin said. ‘But if we don’t know how the connections are made, how do we connect?’

Carol said thoughtfully, ‘When in doubt, ask a policeman.’

‘Do what?’ Kevin asked.

‘There are gay officers in the Job. More than most, they must know about keeping a low profile. They’d be able to tell us.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ Kevin protested doggedly. ‘If they’re so busy keeping it quiet, how do we know who they are?’

‘The Met has an association of gay and lesbian police officers. Why don’t we get in touch with them, in confidence, and ask for their help? Somebody must have some contacts in Bradfield.’

Merrick stared at Carol with admiration, Kevin with frustration, both wondering silently how it was that Inspector Jordan always had an answer.

Tom Cross glanced down at the front page of the Sentinel Times, a smirk of satisfaction twitching his cigarette up and down. Ms Burgess might have thought she was in control of their little encounter the night before, but Tom Cross knew different. He’d played the spider to her fly, and she’d done exactly what he expected of her. No, credit where it’s due. She’d done better than he’d expected. That line about the police staggering lamely in the wake of the Sentinel Times when it came to seeking out Dr bloody Hill was a corker.

There were going to be a lot of angry men in Bradfield police today. That was the revenge element of Tom Cross’s game with Penny Burgess. But someone else was going to be angry too. When he read tonight’s paper, the killer was going to be more than a little put out.

Tom Cross stubbed out his cigarette and slurped from his mug of tea. He folded his paper and placed it on the table in front of him and stared out of the cafe window. He lit another cigarette. He’d set out to provoke the Queer Killer. Provoked, he’d start to get careless, to make mistakes. And when Stevie McConnell did that, Tom Cross would be ready and waiting. He’d show those sorry bastards in command how to catch a killer.

Tony was back in the office by ten to three. Even so, he wasn’t early enough to beat Carol. ‘Inspector Jordan’s here,’ Claire said as soon as he opened the outer office door. She gestured with her head towards his office. ‘She’s in there waiting. I told her you’d be back.’

Tony’s responding smile was strained. As he gripped the door handle, he clenched his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Nailing what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face, Tony opened the door and stepped into his office. At the sound of the door, Carol turned away from the window she’d been staring out of and gave him a cool, appraising look. Tony closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

‘You look like a man who’s just stepped in a puddle that’s deeper than his shoe,’ Carol remarked.

‘That’s an improvement, then,’ Tony said with more than a trace of irony. ‘Usually I feel like I’ve stepped in a puddle that’s deeper than my head.’

Carol took a step towards him. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘There’s no need to feel like that with me. Last night… well, you were less than candid and I misread the signals. So can we please forget the whole thing and concentrate on what’s important between us?’

‘Which is?’ Tony sounded impersonal as a therapist, his question conversational rather than challenging.

‘Working together to nail this killer.’

Tony pushed himself away from the door and made for the safety of his seat, careful to keep the desk between them at all times. ‘That’s fine by me.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Believe me, I’m far better at professional relationships than the other kind. Think of it as a lucky escape.’

Carol walked round to the opposite side of the desk and pulled up a chair. She crossed her trouser-clad legs and folded her hands in her lap. ‘So let’s have a look at this profile.’

‘We don’t have to behave as if we’re strangers,’ Tony said quietly. ‘I respect you, and I admire the way you’re so open to learning new aspects of the job. Look, before… before what happened last night, we seemed to be moving towards a friendship that went beyond work. Was that such a bad thing? Couldn’t we settle for that?’

Carol shrugged. ‘It’s not easy making friends after you’ve exposed your weaknesses.’

‘I don’t think showing someone you’re attracted to them is necessarily a weakness.’

‘I feel foolish,’ Carol said, not quite sure why she was opening up like this. ‘I had no right to expect anything from you. Now, I’m angry with myself.’

‘And with me too, I expect,’ Tony said. This was proving less traumatic than he had imagined. His counselling techniques hadn’t rusted over from lack of use, he thought with relief.

‘Mostly with myself,’ Carol said. ‘But I can deal with that. The important thing for me is that we get the job done.’

‘Me too. It’s pretty rare for me to find a police officer who seems to have a grasp of what I’m trying to do.’ He picked up the papers on his desk. ‘Carol… This isn’t about you, you know. It’s about me. I have problems of my own that I need to deal with.’

Carol stared at him long and hard. He felt a quick twitch of panic as he realized he could not read her eyes. He had no idea what she was feeling. ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ she replied, her voice cold. ‘Speaking of problems,’ she added, ‘haven’t we got some work to do?’

Carol sat alone in Tony’s office with his profile of the serial killer. He had left her to read it while he worked next door with his secretary, catching up on the correspondence that had piled up since Brandon had hijacked him only a handful of days before. She couldn’t remember ever having been so fascinated by a report in her entire career. If this was the future of policing, she desperately wanted to be part of it. At last, she came to the end of the main body of text and turned to a separate sheet.

Points to pursue:

1. Had any of the victims ever mentioned to a friend/ relative that they had been the subject of an unwanted homosexual approach? If so, when, where and from whom?

2. The killer is a stalker. His first encounter with his victims probably takes place quite a long time before he kills – weeks rather than days. Where is he encountering them? It may be something as banal as where they take their dry-cleaning, where they have their shoes heeled, where they buy sandwiches, where they have tyres or exhausts put on their cars. Given that they all lived close to the tram network, I think we should check whether the victims regularly used the trams to go to and from work, or to go out in the evenings. I suggest that in-depth background checks are done, going through bank accounts, credit-card statements and anecdotal evidence from colleagues, girlfriends and family members. This may help develop suspects.

3. Is there any indication that the victims were keeping the night in question free for any particular purpose? Gareth Finnegan lied to his girlfriend about it – did any of the others?

4. Where is he doing his killing? It’s unlikely to be in his home, since he will have calculated the possibility of being arrested, and will have taken pains to avoid leaving forensic traces there. It’s also got to be big enough for him to build and use the torture engines we are assuming in these cases. It may be an isolated lock-up garage, or a unit on an industrial estate which is deserted at night. Bearing in mind that he almost certainly lives in Bradfield, it’s possible that there exists an isolated rural property that he has undisturbed access to.

5. He must have found out about instruments of torture somewhere so that he could construct his own. It might be worth checking with bookshops and libraries to see if any of their customers has enquired about or ordered books on torture.

Carol flicked back a few pages, rereading a couple of paragraphs which had particularly struck her first time through. She found it hard to credit how quickly Tony had assimilated the stacks of files she’d delivered. Not only that, but he’d drawn out of them the key points that created for the first time in Carol’s mind a picture, albeit shadowy, of the man she was hunting.

But the profile raised questions in her mind. At least one of those questions didn’t seem to have occurred to Tony. She wondered if it wasn’t referred to because he had dismissed it out of hand. Either way, she had to know. And she had to find a way of asking that didn’t sound like an attack.