A Deadly Likeness, page 29
Most of the time, walking over the secluded moors with Harvey was enough to restore my equilibrium. A decompression that evened out the troughs of a bad day. But it wasn’t cutting it this time and I knew I wasn’t immune to the burnout I’d seen so many times in others.
The weather battered the windows and howled around my walls. I flipped the lid on the Aga and put the kettle on the hotplate. Jen was working from home today, not wanting to drive in the worsening weather.
Harvey curled on his bed in front of the oven, snoring contentedly, showing no interest in braving the weather either.
As I prepared the teapot, I decided to give myself the day off. Curled up on the sofa in front of a log fire.
We both jumped when the bell above the Aga clanged as the office phone rang. I ran down the corridor to catch it before the caller rang off.
I grabbed the phone. ‘McCready.’
‘Jo.’ Supt. Warner sounded weary. ‘I need you to come in.’
‘Now?’ I looked out at the snow. ‘There’s a storm forecast . . . it’s getting bad up here.’
‘Callum reported what you’d told him. ACU are involved. They need to speak to you and so do I.’
Inwardly, I groaned. Wishing, not for the first time, that I’d kept my mouth shut.
‘I’ve got to change vehicles first. My TT can’t manage in this.’
‘Fine.’ She sounded brusque. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Chapter Sixty-Four
Friday Afternoon, Fordley Police Station
Callum held the door for me as we left Warner’s office. It had been an uncomfortable thirty minutes, but I’d managed to substantiate what I’d told Callum, without compromising Chris McGarry or Finn.
Officers from ACU had spoken to Jack Halton, who was more than happy to confirm what he’d told me.
‘ACU haven’t come up with anything, yet,’ Callum said quietly as we walked down the carpeted corridor to the lifts. ‘They’ve looked at Dave Finch and the Sheridan family. No one from any of the joint investigation teams has any familial connection.’
‘Have they interviewed the family?’
‘No one to interview,’ he said grimly. ‘Father died years ago. Mother’s in a home with advanced dementia. There was an older brother – Nick Sheridan. He was in the army when Finch died.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Killed. Motorbike accident in Northern Ireland in 1995.’
‘Then all we have left is rumour. What did Hannah say when you questioned him about the phone calls?’
Callum punched the button for the lift.
‘He’s lawyered up, which was predictable. Went “no comment” on us.’
‘So, what now?’
‘Unless something turns up, there’s nothing to hold him on.’
The doors slid open and we stepped into the lift.
‘At least we got one lucky break,’ he said, to our reflections in the mirrored wall. ‘Malecki getting chucked into solitary.’
‘Yes.’ I kept my expression impassive. ‘Lucky.’
As we stepped out of the lift, Frank Heslopp collared us in the corridor.
‘There you are, boss.’ He sounded out of breath.
Callum followed him towards the incident room, with Heslopp moving faster than I thought he could.
‘Tony’s been scouring CCTV from the time of Haverley’s murder. You need to see this.’
A group huddled around a computer screen.
‘Boss,’ Tony said when he saw Callum. ‘No cameras along the road through Oldfield, to Haverley’s cottage. So, we looked at the main routes in and out. Picked up a white van going past a row of shops in Keighley, heading in the right direction, but it was a side shot.’
Everyone leaned forward to get a better look. The side of the van had some kind of outline on it.
‘Where a decal’s been removed,’ Heslopp supplied helpfully.
Tony put the end of his pencil on the screen. ‘Right at this point, a bus comes the other way. All city buses have dashcams, so I thought it might have caught the registration as it passed. The bus company sent us the footage.’
The image showed the front of a white Ford Connect, head on as the path of the two vehicles crossed. The registration number was clear. Everyone recognised it instantly; it was burned into our collective memory.
Peter Randall’s van.
*
Supt. Warner called Callum, DI Wardman, Heslopp and me into her office.
‘Jacob Malecki’s screaming blue murder,’ she said without the hint of a smile.
Heslopp snorted. ‘My heart bleeds.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she said tightly, ‘but while it’s good that he’s off the grid, it still leaves us with an existing issue.’ She turned to me. ‘You said when you mentioned the mobile phone, Malecki was relieved?’
‘He knew the cell search wouldn’t find anything.’
‘If he’s not using a mobile to communicate with the outside, then how?’
‘He used the public phone on Tuesday,’ Wardman said.
Callum shook his head. ‘That’s the only time in over two years. Any letters he’s written have been photocopied by the prison and kept. It’s over a year since he wrote to anyone.’
‘He’s been in touch with his disciple more recently than that,’ Warner mused.
‘Maybe he doesn’t have to,’ Heslopp said, ‘now that he’s set them off on a pre-prepared plan with the “Q” code.’
‘But he was communicating with them before,’ I said. ‘Until he realised we were on to him.’
‘The only way to reach the outside is through visits.’ Heslopp said. ‘Phone or letters – how else?’
Callum looked at me as the same thought hit us both.
‘His paintings,’ we said in unison.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Friday Night, Kingsberry Farm
Callum had obtained a warrant to seize Malecki’s paintings.
According to Gerald Carter, everything his client had produced for the past six months was destined for the new exhibition. If Malecki was somehow getting messages out of the prison in his paintings, we’d only have to look at the most recent works.
There was nothing I could add to the proceedings, so I’d come back to the farm. But not before I’d asked Warner for the archived files on Malecki’s arrest and the transcripts of his interviews from 1994.
‘What are you looking for?’ she’d asked, even as she was authorising my access.
‘Not sure. Fishing expedition, if I’m honest.’
‘There are hundreds of files. Not sure where you’d start.’
‘Me neither. But what else do I have to do on a Friday night, this close to Christmas?’
*
I sat in my office at the farm, with brown cardboard storage boxes stacked either side of me. A small sample from a choice of hundreds.
I’d chosen the ones I thought most relevant, but they could be the wrong haystacks for hunting my particular needle.
I was currently reading through Jack Halton’s early reports.
Much like the Yorkshire Ripper hunt in the late seventies, the same names kept coming up. But leads were missed, in a tsunami of data which, before the use of computers, relied on handwritten index cards to store information. Cross-referencing was almost impossible as the investigation sprawled across fifteen long years and Malecki continually slipped through the net.
Something Jack said had stayed with me. I trawled through Manilla folders, until I found what I was looking for.
Records from the car hire company, when Malecki travelled home for his birthday.
He’d picked the car up from Cambridge. The mileage was recorded on collection and return.
Just as Jack said, Malecki had gone over the agreed limit and his father had to pay the difference. According to the log, it had been an extra thirty-nine miles.
Not a huge amount, considering how much it cost to hire the car in the first place. Presumably, that’s why his father had kicked off about it.
I opened Google Maps and put in his mother’s address in Manchester. Then studied the surrounding area. Where would that extra thirty-nine miles have taken Malecki?
Malecki kidnapped Michelle Hatfield on Wednesday night.
I thought back to the moment in the Seg, when I’d asked the question.
. . . you disposed of Michelle’s body before travelling to Manchester?
Yes.
I’d seen the micro-expression that flitted across his face as he’d answered. He’d lied.
Just a few miles from his mother’s house in Old Trafford was leafy Cheshire. Acres of open spaces, farms and country walks and the Manchester Ship Canal. Plenty of places to dispose of Michelle’s body, on his way home.
Jack Halton’s voice echoed back to me . . .
Said she was a birthday present to himself.
Malecki was precise about everything. Including language.
Words.
‘Not an early present,’ I muttered to myself. ‘A present . . . on your actual birthday. Three days later. Saturday eighteenth of July.’
His nineteenth birthday.
His first kill.
His first mistake.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Saturday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
‘What time is it?’ Callum’s voice was thick with sleep.
‘Just gone six – sorry.’
‘Bloody hell, Jo. I only got to bed at half four.’
‘I haven’t been to bed at all.’ I scanned the notes I’d made in the early hours. ‘Couldn’t sleep once I’d found this. Thought you’d be on your way to the office.’
‘In a couple of hours,’ he said, irritated.
I could hear movement and imagined him swinging his feet out of bed. ‘But as you think sleep is overrated, what is it that couldn’t wait?’
‘I’ve been studying the records from Malecki’s arrest.’
‘No wonder you can’t sleep.’
‘Michelle Hatfield was his first kill. The mistakes he made then informed his MO in the future. That’s why he began obsessively planning.’
‘OK.’ I could hear him filling the kettle.
‘He hired a car on the afternoon Michelle disappeared. He told me he killed her and disposed of her body before he drove to Manchester the next day.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
I shook my head. ‘We can only guess what he did with her that night, but I’m certain that she was still alive – probably in the boot of the car when he went north the next day.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘He said killing her was a birthday present. I think he killed her on his actual birthday. The Saturday.’
‘So, what did he do with her until then? Ask his mum to put her up in the spare room?’
‘You’re not funny.’
I told him about the mileage discrepancy.
‘On that journey from Cambridge, he could have come off route at any point and dumped Michelle’s body,’ Callum was saying as cups and spoons rattled in the background. ‘What makes you think those extra thirty-nine miles were in a radius of his mother’s house?’
‘Because I’ve read the police interviews with his parents. On Saturday morning, Malecki left the house, saying he had errands to run. His father was annoyed, because he was late back. Missed the start of his own party at two in the afternoon. He never accounted for his whereabouts and by the time police were asking the questions, it was thirteen years later. No way to check and they’d made their arrest, so they didn’t sweat the minor details.’
‘This coffee hasn’t kicked in yet,’ he said wearily, ‘give me the edited highlights.’
‘When Malecki drove north, Michelle was alive. He took her somewhere close to his mother’s house. Left her there until Saturday morning, then went back to have his fun with her, which doesn’t bear thinking about. He cut off her finger, then killed her. His birthday present.’
The silence on the other end of the phone stretched out for so long, I thought he’d gone.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m still here.’
I waited, but he didn’t say anything, so I pushed on, speaking fast to get my theory out, before he cut the legs from under me.
‘Malecki told me he’d studied the mistakes of other killers and knew he wouldn’t fall into those same traps. His first kill was on his birthday. Afterwards, he knew that was an identifiable signature. One that could give too much away. But his ego meant that he couldn’t resist making future kills relevant. So, from then on, he killed on the day and not the date. He also never made the mistake of keeping a victim alive after that. He realised it posed too many complications. Not least finding a deposition site for the body. Ever since Michelle, he’s left them at the murder scene.’
‘Not many places he could hold her, alive, for almost three days, without anyone seeing or hearing anything. Not to mention coming and going unnoticed.’ But I could hear him considering the possibilities.
‘Lots of rural areas just a short drive from Trafford. In 1981, plenty of empty farms, outbuildings.’
‘Even if you’re right, we don’t have the resources, Jo. It doesn’t form part of the current investigation—’
‘It does though, Cal. Malecki’s always refused to say what he did with Michelle’s body. Why? Because I believe, wherever it was is the same place he stored his notebooks and trophies. Throughout his killing years, he visited his mother regularly. Killers who take trophies like to return to them . . . often. And in his later years, he moved permanently to the north.’
‘You think the disciple’s been there – to get Malecki’s custom-made knife and notebooks?’
‘Yes. And the trophies that are appearing for sale.’
‘A thirty-nine-mile radius is a hell of a search area. I haven’t got the manpower for that, or the budget. We’re stretched as it is and frankly, your theory’s not enough to justify it. I’d never get it past the powers that be.’
‘I could keep looking, in my own time?’
‘As long as you don’t bill me, it’s your time to waste.’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Saturday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
‘Have you got the time to waste, though?’ I asked, as Ed set up his row of monitors across Jen’s desk.
‘Firstly, it’s not a waste, and secondly, I enjoy the challenge. Besides, I’m officially out of the office for the next few months, so no one’s going to miss me for a few hours here and there.’
My curiosity was piqued. ‘Taking leave?’
‘Hardly.’ His voice was muffled as he crawled under the desk. ‘Volunteered my expertise to work alongside DICE.’ His head popped up from the other side. Clocking my expression, he added, ‘Dark Web Intelligence, Collection and Exploitation. They work in partnership with the National Crime Agency and Regional Cyber Crime Units.’
He crawled out and stood up, brushing dust off his jeans. I made an embarrassed note-to-self to vacuum under the desks more thoroughly.
‘Sounds impressive.’
‘I can multitask. Especially if I’m supplied with endless cups of coffee.’
I returned his infectious smile. ‘OK. I’ll take the hint.’
Harvey followed me as I went down to the kitchen, just as my mobile rang.
‘Just wanted to bring you up to date,’ Callum said. ‘We recovered Malecki’s paintings from the gallery in Saltaire, this morning.’
‘Bet Gerald Carter wasn’t best pleased?’
‘You can only imagine. Threatened to sue, if any damage is done. We also seized the log book from his safe, with the code numbers and signatures for authentication. The techies will be checking those against the canvasses at the lab.’ I could hear him taking a drink, which I knew would be strong coffee. ‘There were two canvasses not accounted for at the gallery.’
‘Did you trace them?’ I poured boiling water into a cafetière. The closest it came to ‘good ground coffee’ in my house.
‘They’re at Wakefield Prison. The final pieces for the exhibition. So, another interesting conversation was had with Rob Harding.’
‘Don’t tell me, he complained it would violate his prisoner’s rights?’
‘Surprisingly, no. Agreed to their collection, good as gold. Didn’t realise how big some of these paintings are though. One of them is eight feet tall. No wonder they can’t store them in Malecki’s cell.’
‘So, what’s next?’
‘Forensics inspect the frames and canvasses, using infrared reflectography.’
‘Will you call me when you get the results?’
‘It should be immediate. They’ll either see something or they won’t.’
‘Anything I can do in the meantime?’
‘Actually, there is.’ I heard him rifling through some papers. ‘Lee in Cyber has got a list of trophies being sold. He has no idea whether they’re genuine. Be helpful if you could take a look?’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll email it. Oh, meant to tell you . . . the handset we traced through IMEI?’
‘What about it?’
‘Went dead. Same day as our team briefing.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘What do you think?’
*
Ed turned one of the monitors towards me. ‘I haven’t forgotten about the Sheridan family. I’ll carry on looking into them, at the same time as this geographical stuff.’
‘The Sheridans might be a dead end.’
I told him about my conversation with Callum.
‘Once he started tracking the burner phone, I had to tell him what I knew. He said no one had a familial connection to anyone in the force.’
‘If you want to stop at family, I’d agree, but—’
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by my mobile. Caller ID said Mary Fielding, my friend from Chapel Mills, who’d invited me to see her son’s paintings. Seeing her name made me realised what I’d done.
‘Oh, God, sorry, Mary.’ I launched straight into my apology. ‘I completely forgot. I’ve been so busy.’
She’d texted the date to my phone and I’d not put it in the diary.
