The Canal Murders, page 23
One of the Irish policemen was sitting with Pett; the other was guarding the door. Pett stood when Tim and Ricky entered the interview room and the seated policeman automatically stood up with him, revealing that they were handcuffed together. Superintendent Donnelly had obviously instructed his team that Pett must be given no opportunity to escape. There was no solicitor present, which Tim thought odd, until he remembered that ostensibly Pett was being questioned only about his daughter’s disappearance and murder. He sighed inwardly. Pett would be unlikely to pass up on the chance to delay the interview by demanding legal representation if its subject switched to the stolen vehicles.
‘Mr Pett,’ said Tim. ‘Thank you for coming here.’
Disconcertingly, Pett broke out into a high-pitched laugh.
‘Didn’t have much choice, did I?’ He raised his fist, displaying its shackle, and gestured at the policeman at the door with his free hand. He sounded amicable enough, Tim thought … and as tricky as a nest of snakes.
‘Please, sit down.’ Tim gestured at the chairs that Pett and the policeman had just vacated. ‘This is DC MacFadyen. I’m afraid we need to ask some questions about Selina. First, I’d like you to know that we’re very sorry for your loss.’
Pett’s leprechaun eyes darted and twinkled.
‘Ach, the good Lord was ready to take her, so she went. Some childer are destined to die young. It’s in their stars.’
‘It wasn’t fate that took your daughter, Mr Pett. She was murdered.’
‘Aye, so you say. Her mother will believe you.’
‘Where is your wife?’
‘She’s been kept by your crew in Ireland. They wouldn let us both out of their sights together. Just as well, maybe. She wouldn have wanted to see the body.’
‘Penny Green has already identified your daughter – we’re satisfied that she was the girl pulled from the Fossdyke. But you’ll want to see her for yourself, of course.’
Pett sat up straight in his chair and flicked his bright eyes around the room. His twinkling, genial demeanour had evaporated in a flash.
‘Penny has a lot to answer for. She’ll be sorry when I catch up with her.’
‘Ms Green was doing her best to look after your daughters. You and your wife left them in her care.’
‘Aye, because we trusted her with them,’ said Pett, eyeballing Tim and spraying him with spittle.
‘My understanding is that Ms Green wasn’t asked to sleep under the same roof as them. She could hardly be held accountable for their actions when you gave them that degree of freedom.’
‘That’s as maybe. There’ll still be trouble when I see her.’
‘I must warn you that this conversation is being recorded. If you or anyone else threatens Ms Green, the recording may be used as evidence against you.’
Pett fell silent and stared at the floor. Tim allowed him time to collect himself before he continued.
‘Your wife’s name is Rosa, right?’
Pett nodded.
‘Why did you and Rosa leave three young girls only semi-supervised? You must have had a powerful reason to do such a thing.’
‘’Twas for business. To make the money to get us through the winter.’
‘And Rosa had to go with you, too?’
‘She helps me.’
‘What kind of business is it, Mr Pett?’
‘I’m a trader.’
‘What do you trade?’
‘This and that. I look out for stuff for people, take it to them if I can get them a deal.’
‘I see. So “people” ask you to get things for them?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Does it include vehicles?’
‘It might do. Look, what is this? I came here to talk to you about Selina and the bastard that killed her. It isn’t about me and what I do.’
‘Agreed, Mr Pett. I apologise. We’ll leave it there, perhaps come back to this discussion another time, when it will be your right to have a solicitor present. I’ll arrange for you to visit the morgue now. Just one more question, if I may. Does the name Josh Marriott mean anything to you?’
Tim was scrutinising Pett closely. Pett met his eye boldly and took his time to answer.
‘No. Why? Should it do?’
‘No particular reason. What about Jack Fovargue?’
‘No,’ said Pett, more quickly this time. He yanked at the handcuff and he and the Irish policeman stood up together.
If Tim was sure of anything, it was that Pett was lying.
Chapter Fifty
Something had been nagging at the back of Juliet’s mind since she and Katrin had talked about the likelihood of there being a multiple copycat killer. She pushed it away while driving the short distance to Katrin’s office and instead started thinking about Jake Fidler and the promise she had made to meet him at the weekend. Guiltily, she glanced over her shoulder at the files from Silverdale Farm, which were sitting on the back seat of her car, now neatly packed into two cardboard boxes. She doubted she’d be able to keep that promise now.
The nagging feeling pushed itself to the surface again as she turned over in her mind all that had happened during the evening she’d spent with Jake. Every memory of it was crystal clear. She relived their conversation, recalling almost the exact words each had uttered. Mentally she retraced the time they’d spent in her flat together and the progress of their journey to Cambridge. She’d overreacted when she’d seen the roadside shrine dedicated to the Polish woman. She’d been afraid that she’d spoilt the evening by introducing too much of the cop into it and then… she returned again to what she’d said to Jake as they’d passed the shrine.
‘She got off the bus at the wrong stop and vanished.’
Katrin had said she’d look for unsolved crimes and then try to pair them with similar crimes that had been committed prior to them, because the copycat killer would be likely to have replicated an unsolved murder more closely than a solved one. Juliet wondered if Katrin had found police accounts of the Polish woman’s disappearance and if so whether she’d considered that case worth adding to the list. But she knew that, officially, the Polish woman had been declared missing; although both the police and the media had long ago assumed she was dead, probably murdered, her husband had clung on to the slender chance that she might still be alive. He’d refused to have her classified as ‘presumed dead’. Katrin would probably not have found the right sort of information to be able to single her out.
She parked the car in front of the early Victorian building that housed Katrin’s office and was opening the nearside back door to retrieve the two boxes when Katrin herself emerged from the building, wearing her coat.
‘Juliet! I didn’t expect to see you again today. Were you looking for me?’
Juliet glanced at her watch.
‘God! I had no idea it was so late. I’ve brought some files from Silverdale Farm. The missing woman I told you about – Martha Johnson – hasn’t turned up and we’ve launched a massive search for her. The files contain transport records – they detail movements of the vehicles belonging to the farm. I want to work through them to see if they offer any clues to Martha’s disappearance. I was going to ask you to help me, partly because they might throw some light on the work you’re doing, too. But it’s the weekend now: don’t let me fuck yours up as well as my own. If I still need some help, I’ll come back on Monday, shall I?’
‘I don’t think I’ll be getting much of a weekend. Tim’s already told me that Martha Johnson is now officially missing and a big search is under way. That’s on top of the two murder enquiries – but I don’t need to tell you about it. I’ll be surprised if I see much of Tim over the next two days. I’ll have to look after Sophia, of course, but she’s out at a party tomorrow afternoon and I can call in a few favours with other mums to get her invited on play dates at least some of the time on Sunday. If you’re prepared to have a bit of an interrupted schedule, we can take the files back to mine.’
‘If you’re sure that’s okay, it would be great.’
Juliet slammed the rear car door shut and opened the passenger door for Katrin. She noticed that Katrin herself was carrying a bulky wad of papers.
‘Let me hold those for you while you strap yourself in.’
As Juliet started the car, she looked at the bundle of papers again.
‘Have you found some cases that might fit with our theory?’
‘There are five unsolved murders or permanent disappearances that I think might yield something. I know I won’t find ‘twins’ for all of them – maybe even for none of them, but I’ll try. They bear no obvious similarities to each other, but there is one thing that’s curious about them.’
‘Go on.’
‘Chronologically speaking, the locations get progressively closer to South Lincolnshire, ending with the Butter Market murder. Steven Smythe was killed in Spalding – that’s right in the middle of the South Lincs police patch. The Fossdyke Canal murders are in North Lincs territory. Last year, there was a case of a girl who disappeared in Worksop. Those are the ones nearest to us. The others are further away, both in time and distance – the disappearance of another girl in the Midlands, two murders in Newcastle, one in Wales.’
‘Have you found any earlier crimes that match them?’
‘Not yet. I was going to do some work on that over the weekend. I’ll be lucky if I find any matches, even if there are some.’
‘Why did you pick these cases in particular?’
‘They all seem like motiveless crimes. No one can come up with an explanation for any of them. And once I started looking at the detail, I found the strange fact that they seem gradually to home in on this area – almost as if the murderer’s taunting us, daring us to find him.’
‘You think he might live in Spalding?’
‘That depends on how reckless he is. If I were him, I’d take care not to foul my own doorstep. But as you know, some serial killers have a kind of death-wish; subconsciously or not, they want to be caught.’
‘Hm, I’ll keep an open mind on whether he lives in Spalding or not. I don’t want to get obsessive about Silverdale Farm, but I’m convinced that something very nasty has been going on there. And Martha Johnson worked – or, should I say, works – there. There’s nothing to indicate that Spalding’s the end of the trail.’
‘I guess you’re right. Anyway, I can start by looking for similar cases or first help you wade through those files, whichever you think will be most help.’
‘Looking for the similar cases might be the best bet – it’ll be more interesting than the files, too. I’ll have to keep my wits about me while I sift through a mountain of pedestrian mileage accounts. I reckon boredom’s the leading cause of missing clues in paperwork.’
Katrin laughed.
‘I’m sure Tim would agree with that. I’ll keep you supplied with coffee.’
Juliet had just swung the car into Edinburgh Drive. She could see Tim’s car standing outside the dormer bungalow he shared with Katrin.
‘There’s Tim’s car now,’ said Juliet. ‘Perhaps I’d better come back tomorrow. I didn’t realise he would be home this early. I’m sure you’d like a to spend some time alone with him.’
‘He’s parked on the street. That means he’s not planning to stay for long. He’s probably just popped in to see Sophia.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s with the child-minder who picks her up after pre-school. She lives in the next street. I’ll walk round to fetch Sophia. You go in and make yourself at home. See if Tim’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks.’ Juliet nodded, thinking Tim was far more likely to suggest that she made one for him. She’d probably do it, too: she still felt uncomfortable about intruding on his private space.
As Katrin hurried away, Juliet remembered that she hadn’t raised with her the disappearance of the Polish woman. She’d bring it up later. It was true it wasn’t surprising the woman didn’t feature on Katrin’s list, but the more Juliet thought about it, the more she thought her disappearance fitted with the theory.
Chapter Fifty-One
Andy Carstairs had spent a mildly interesting couple of hours at the Lincoln showground watching farmers, agricultural machinery manufacturers and assorted local artisans setting up their stands. There was a St John Ambulance first aid post near the entrance to the ground and Andy had struck up a conversation with the man and woman on duty, explaining that he was a plain-clothes police officer on the look-out for undesirables. Luckily for him, they’d attended another show a few weeks before at which some of the stands had been damaged and visitors endangered by a group of motorcycle joyriders speeding through “for a laugh”, as the man put it contemptuously. Andy’s mission sounded plausible, therefore, and they made him welcome, even providing him with tea.
Lincoln wasn’t one of the big shows – plots had been marked out for perhaps two dozen stands. From his vantage point, Andy was able to keep watch on the Fovargues, who had a pitch in the central row. They seemed to be working together harmoniously enough, erecting the stand with a practised skill. It took them about ninety minutes to complete the job. They spent some time after that walking round the other stands and talking to their owners. Most were affable enough and happy to engage in conversation – one or two were gruff and got rid of them with a short couple of words, but Andy didn’t think such brush-offs were significant. This was Lincolnshire, after all: some people didn’t like being interrupted when they were busy and Lincolnshire folk weren’t usually slow to tell it how it was.
He thought he saw Susie Fovargue glance across at the first aid post a few times as if she had clocked him, but since they’d never actually met, he was probably imagining it. Jack Fovargue, having immersed himself in his own particular brand of bonhomie, didn’t look at him once.
After three quarters of an hour or so, Susie had had enough of the niceties. She said something to Fovargue and gestured towards the pantechnicon, which they’d parked at the end of their row of stands. Fovargue nodded and, after chatting for a few more seconds with one of his neighbours, followed Susie across the grass to the vehicle. He manoeuvred it round the edge of the field with considerable dexterity. As it neared the first aid post, Andy walked away so that Fovargue wouldn’t see his face. He listened to the chug-chugging noise it made as Fovargue steered it through the narrow entranceway and only turned back to look at it once it was out on the road. It appeared to be heading out towards Scampton.
Andy called Tim on his mobile.
Tim put down the cup of tea that Juliet had just made for him. He switched the phone to ‘speak’.
‘Hello, Andy? Are you still at the showground?’
‘Yep. But the Fovargues have just left. They’re on the A15, on the Scampton road – going in the opposite direction to Silverdale Farm.’
‘Hi, Andy, it’s Juliet. That’s not a surprise. Susie told me they were staying overnight somewhere near to the show. There’s a local woman looking after the kids.’
‘Can you follow them, Andy?’ It was Tim again.
‘If I go right away, probably. They can’t be moving very fast in that thing he’s driving.’
‘Get after them, then, will you?’
‘Sure. And then what? Do you want me to keep tabs on them for the whole night?’
‘No, that shouldn’t be necessary. Just wait until you think they’ve settled down for the night. If it’s only a guest house they’re staying in, they might go out to dinner.’
‘All right. I’d better get going.’
Andy cut the call. He’d left his car parked on the main road, as close in to the verge as he could get it. Another car had now parked in front of his. As Andy reversed back a few yards to pull in front of it, a motorcyclist shot past him.
‘Christ, mate, slow down, will you!’ Andy muttered as he swung the car out into the road and followed the bike.
He’d almost reached Scampton before he rounded a bend and saw the pantechnicon just ahead of him. To his surprise, the motorcyclist was riding behind it. Having roared past Andy like a bat out of hell, the rider had slowed to the sedate speed of 35mph. Andy tried to see beyond the lorry. The road ahead appeared to be both straight and clear; overtaking the giant vehicle in a car might be tricky, but it shouldn’t have presented too much of a problem to an accomplished biker.
The motorcyclist looked over his shoulder. As far as Andy could tell, it was no one he knew, but he decided to hang back and allowed another car, a red Honda, to occupy the space between them. It was unlikely he’d lose the pantechnicon now. The whole group trundled on for a few miles, eventually losing the Honda when it turned into the yard of a pub. The pantechnicon halted at the junction of the A15 and the A1103 and turned left towards Gainsborough. The motorcyclist followed. Andy drew closer to the bike and memorised its registration number, then dropped back again.
Andy’s mobile sang into life.
‘Andy? Did you catch up with Fovargue?’
‘Yes, and I’m still following him. He’s just turned left on the A1103, heading for Gainsborough.’
‘That’s probably where he’ll be staying, then. Remember what I said.’
Andy rolled his eyes.
‘Yes, boss. One other thing: a motorcyclist may be following him as well. He came haring past me at the showground, but since he caught up with Fovargue he’s stayed behind him.’
‘Strange. You don’t know who it is?’
‘I don’t think so, but his face is covered by a visor.’
‘Could just be a coincidence, but go carefully, Andy. Don’t get involved in anything. If you need to apprehend anyone, send for backup first. I’ll alert DI Robinson, ask him to have a patrol car ready to come out from Lincoln to support you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Andy. ‘Look, I’m going to switch you off now because…’ He’d missed the click. Tim had already terminated the call.
