A Deadly Likeness, page 31
‘Cocky little shit,’ Callum grunted.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Not looking good, is it?’
He took a long breath, shaking his head. ‘If all this checks out, it proves Randall was in Cumbria, but not his van. Someone else could have used it. He could still be involved.’
I looked back at the man in the interview room. ‘Have they asked him about Malecki?’
‘He doesn’t deny being a friend, or that he’s on the fandom sites and that he’s visited him in prison. None of which are against the law . . . Unfortunately. Says he hasn’t heard from him for months.’
I turned my attention to the interview.
‘He’s not leaking any stress signals,’ I said.
‘It’s not his first time in the chair,’ Callum said quietly.
I studied his body language. His demeanour and that illusive ingredient I could see and understand, but could never quantify to others.
‘His energy’s all wrong.’
‘Energy?’ Callum shot me a look.
‘Not physical energy.’ I tried to explain what I could see with my ‘third eye’. ‘Emotional energy.’
‘And what’s it telling you?’
‘That he’s enjoying himself.’
‘He’s a fan of a serial killer. With a portrait of a monster tattooed across his back. Of course, he’s enjoying himself. This is the kind of attention nutters like him just love. Unfortunately, I can’t charge him with being in possession of an offensive attitude.’
‘If you can’t tie him to it, with forensics, what then?’
His eyes never left the screen. ‘We keep digging.’
As I was about to leave, there was a knock on the door and Lee from Cyber poked his head in.
‘Boss . . . you free?’
‘Yep.’
‘You asked me to pose as a buyer for that paperweight on the DNM?’
‘DNM?’ I asked.
Lee looked at me, as if humouring the hard of thinking. ‘Dark Net Marketplace.’
‘What about it?’ Callum said impatiently.
‘Wednesdayschild’s accepted our bid late last night.’
‘Hope you haggled,’ Callum said. ‘Would look suspicious if we just agreed fifteen hundred quid straight off.’
‘Fifteen hundred pounds!’ I was staggered.
‘No way to verify its authenticity,’ Lee went on, unfazed. ‘So got it for nine hundred pounds.’
‘Any closer to identifying Wednesdayschild?’ Callum asked.
‘I’ve identified their bitcoin wallet, but that doesn’t give us an individual ID. Transactions go through a Bitcoin escrow account, held in Argentina. But that’s encrypted to hell and back.’
‘You lost me at bitcoin wallet,’ I admitted.
‘Me too.’ Callum grimaced.
‘All you need to know,’ Lee said in a tone of someone used to explaining his geek world to non-geeks, ‘is that following the money isn’t an option in the time we’ve got.’
‘Any suggestions?’ Callum’s patience wearing thin.
‘Now we’ve bought the item, it has to be delivered. To do that, the seller has to crawl out of the darknet and come into daylight. We’ve given an address in Fordley for the delivery.’
Callum nodded. ‘OK.’
‘They usually move goods via courier. Once we know which parcel service it is, we track it backwards, to where the package was picked up. With any luck, that’ll lead us to them.’
We both looked at each other and I knew we were thinking the same thing. This was all taking time and the clock was ticking down on someone else’s life.
Chapter Seventy
Monday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
It often went like this. Nothing for weeks, then everything happens at once.
The first thing to happen was a call from Callum, as I was working alone in my office.
‘Result.’ Was all he said.
‘With the X-ray?’
I automatically glanced over to Jen’s desk. She’d be the first person I’d share with. But she’d called to say she’d picked up the sore throat I’d had and was staying home.
‘It’s some kind of code,’ Callum was saying. ‘Ones and zeros – like binary.’
‘Malecki was never going to make it easy.’
‘Cyber techies are working on it. The two paintings we collected from the prison are being X-rayed today, but I’m sure we’ll find the same on those. Three or four lines of noughts and ones across the bottom of the canvas.’
‘The only person those messages could be for is someone who comes into contact with the canvasses . . .’
‘And has access to an X-ray machine,’ Callum added. ‘Frank spoke to the university. Carter’s gallery never used their facility. They use an auction house in York. Anyone can buy a portable machine though. They range from the size of a photocopier, for a couple of thousand pounds, plus, there’s an X-ray scanner in Wakefield prison. Which widens the field more than I’d like.’
‘What happened with Randall?’
‘Site manager in Cumbria confirms Randall was there for the whole four months. Security cameras on the compound show Randall’s van hasn’t moved.’
‘How can the same van be on Oakworth Road last week then?’
‘Cloned,’ he said simply. ‘Someone’s got the same make and model vehicle and put Randall’s number plate on it.’
‘And the marks on the side?’
‘Easy enough to replicate. It’s only a black outline of the original signage.’
‘Someone’s going to a lot of trouble to make Randall look guilty.’
‘The disciple,’ Callum said simply. ‘Malecki puts Randall and Hannah on the list and the disciple does the work to make us believe they’re suspects.’
‘Luring Hannah to Paxton Pits,’ I said. ‘Then cloning Randall’s van.’
‘Looks like we haven’t got enough to hold Randall. We’ll probably have to release him under investigation.’
‘Like Hannah,’ I said, almost to myself.
‘Gerald Carter’s still in the frame . . . no pun intended. You said he fits the profile as a disciple?’
‘And he has access to the canvasses.’ I thought about it for a moment, before adding, ‘So does Jill Neatley.’
‘But she admitted she scans the canvasses when they come into the gallery. Not sure she’d be so forthcoming if she was involved. She just used infrared to check the signatures,’ Callum said. ‘No X-ray machine at the gallery and the binary code doesn’t show up with reflectography. If Carter is involved, Jill Neatley’s in a dangerous position. She could be at risk.’ I could hear him shuffling paperwork. ‘I’m not ready to let Hannah off the hook just yet either. He’s still up to his neck and Carter knows more than he’s saying.’
‘I said in my profile, the offender’s looking for weak targets. Doesn’t want a house with multiple occupants, because they’re not confident of being able to control them.’
‘Which could mean, not physically strong?’
‘Which would apply to Carter or Hannah.’
‘The only suspect we have who’s built like a weightlifter is Randall.’
‘When Elle . . . Dr Richardson told me they were attacked from behind that raised a flag for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Attacking from behind minimises the chance of confrontation. A physically weaker assailant would want to avoid that.’
I thought back to my conversation with Elle in McNamara’s bar.
Inflicted with some force in the case of Stephen Jones. The wound went down to the vertebrae . . .
‘Barbara Thorpe wasn’t attacked with the same ferocity as Jones. The knife was applied with more pressure in his case – almost decapitated him. A physically weaker killer would attack a male more aggressively to make damn sure he didn’t put up a fight.’
‘If we do eliminate Randall,’ Callum said, ‘Carter and Hannah are neck and neck on the suspects list.’
‘Is that another sick pun?’
He ignored that, before saying, ‘We need a surveillance team.’
*
The next thing to happen was an unexpected visit from Ed.
I heard the growling engine of his four-by-four a minute before he knocked on the door. Harvey bounded ahead as I went down the corridor to the kitchen.
‘This is a surprise,’ I said, letting him into the porch, where he stood, knocking snow from his boots.
He had a cardboard tube under his arm. ‘Wanted to bring you this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Surprise,’ he said mysteriously.
He followed me into the kitchen.
‘Brew?’
‘Always.’ He slipped off his jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, then came up behind me and slipped his arms round my waist.
He kissed the back of my neck. ‘I’ve missed you.’
I wriggled out of his arms, ‘Easy, tiger. Some of us have to work today.’
He brandished the cardboard tube like the spoils of war. ‘Ah, well, that’s where this comes in. Mind if I take it into the office?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
Harvey, fickle as usual, followed his new friend, leaving me to the domestic chores.
When I walked into the office, Harvey was sitting on the rug, watching curiously as Ed tacked poster-sized printouts on to the wall.
I handed him his coffee.
The posters joined up like jigsaw pieces. A mix of satellite images and aerial photography, creating a 3D image.
‘Google Earth?’ I hazarded a guess.
‘Yep. Of the area I calculated we need to be looking at, for Malecki’s hidey-hole. Easier than trying to make sense of multiple images on a computer screen.’
We were looking at a rural area, much smaller than the thirty-nine-mile radius we’d started with.
‘How did you narrow it down?’
He leaned back against my desk, nursing his mug.
‘If Malecki visited the site on the morning of his birthday, I reckoned the thirty-nine miles were made up of three journeys. On the night he travelled north, let’s assume he left Michelle somewhere on the route to his parents’ house.’
‘OK.’
‘On the morning of his birthday, he travels from his parents’ place to the site and back again. I plotted the area for us to consider on that basis.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Good coffee, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’
‘If you’re right about this location being visited by the disciple then we can rule out areas that have been built on since 1981.’
He pushed away from the desk and went to maps he’d tacked up on the right-hand side.
‘These are plans from a geological survey that was done in 1983. It shows what the area was like, around the time Michelle went missing. I compared it to the present day, and blocked out areas that have been built on. What we’re left with on these maps . . .’ He tapped the ones on the left. ‘Are places that are still accessible.’
The 3D provided amazing detail. Farms, buildings, fields and forest areas.
‘Wow! I’m impressed.’
‘Aww shucks, it was nothing, ma’am.’ He grinned, finishing his coffee. ‘Anyway, got to get back.’
I stepped into his open arms, relishing the feel of him – the taste of his lips, before reluctantly pulling away.
‘Think you’d better go, before I change my mind about working today.’
‘Spoilsport.’
*
An hour after Ed left, I was standing in front of the maps, pencil in hand, putting myself into Malecki’s mindset almost three decades earlier, when my phone rang.
It was Supt. Warner.
‘Can you come in, Jo?’
‘The weather’s closing in up here. Can’t we do it over the phone?’
‘Not really.’ The hesitation in her voice told me she was holding something back. ‘It’s rather sensitive.’
Chapter Seventy-One
Monday Afternoon, Fordley Police Station
Callum, DI Wardman and myself were in Supt. Warner’s less-than-spacious office.
‘Initially the call went to the SIO.’ Warner indicated Callum. ‘But obviously, got escalated to me. I contacted the manager at Fordley Mental Health Crisis Team and, with their client’s permission, had her records sent over.’
I scanned the client assessment form. ‘Who’s Sylvie Roberts?’
‘You’ll know her as Sophie Adams,’ Callum said.
‘The seven-year-old, who witnessed the Gordons’ murder?’
He nodded. ‘Her parents gave evidence at the trial and the film of Sophie, picking Malecki out of an ID parade, was shown. After the trauma it caused the family, they requested Protected Persons status.’
The Protected Persons Service – called ‘witness protection’ on TV crime dramas – meant that people were given new identities and moved to a different part of the country, to rebuild their lives.
Warner picked up the story. ‘The Roberts family, as they became, relocated to France.’
‘So, how come she’s back here?’
‘The scheme’s voluntary,’ Warner explained. ‘She kept her new identity, but opted out of the scheme a few years ago.’
‘Why on earth would she want to come back to Fordley?’ I asked.
‘Her brother, Harry,’ Callum said.
The baby. Born in a snowstorm, on the night of the Gordons’ murder.
‘He’s thirty now, Sylvie’s thirty-seven,’ Callum was saying. ‘He got a job over here four years ago. Sylvie came with him. It was Harry who called us.’
‘The parents divorced in France,’ Warner said. ‘The family fractured over the years. Just Harry and Sylvie now.’
I looked again at her patient record. Sylvie had suffered from crippling anxiety throughout her teenage years, resulting in periods in and out of psychiatric units.
‘Says here that since returning to the UK, she’s developed severe agoraphobia.’
‘Hasn’t been out of the house in two years,’ Warner added. ‘Harry’s her main support.’
‘Malecki appearing in the news triggered severe PTSD,’ Callum said.
‘Hardly surprising,’ Wardman piped up, from somewhere behind me.
‘When Haverley’s murder went public,’ Callum explained, ‘Sylvie’s condition deteriorated. The mental health team obviously didn’t understand why, but Sylvie and Harry don’t want to tell them, because that would mean revealing her real identity.’
‘She’d know the significance of Haverley, where no one else would,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘Even though they were only young, their parents will have told them about the case and the trial. The fact that Malecki was caught on his way to kill Haverley.’
Warner nodded. ‘And that Jack Halton took a closer look at Malecki’s car, because of Sophie’s . . . Sylvie’s photofit. The evidence she gave about hearing him say his name was “Jake” and the ID parade. The part she played was pivotal to his conviction, despite her age.’
Warner scanned her notes. ‘Harry called to assess how realistic Sylvie’s fears were. Get some kind of reassurance.’
‘I’m going to visit them,’ Callum said. ‘As SIO, it’ll show we’re taking their concerns seriously.’
‘In view of Sylvie’s fragile state,’ Supt. Warner added, ‘I want you to go too, Jo. Having a psychologist attending demonstrates we’re handling this with the care it deserves.’
*
Monday, Sylvie Roberts’ House, Fordley
It was hard to reconcile the image of a cute seven-year-old to the woman sitting on the sofa in front of us.
Her painfully skinny frame, with jutting collar bones, hinted at an eating disorder. The impression compounded by her sallow complexion and the dark bruise-like shadows under her eyes. She hugged an oversized jumper around herself, in an effort to conceal her body.
She still had long, blonde hair, tied with an elastic band, but thin patches, where her scalp showed through, were evidence of hair loss. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.
Ever since we’d arrived at the neat, end-terraced house and been ushered into the small lounge by her brother, Sylvie had almost huddled into the corner of the sofa, chain-smoking her way through Callum’s introductions.
I watched as she lit another cigarette from the stub of the last. Despite the rest of the room being clean and tidy, the ashtray on the glass coffee table between us was overflowing.
Sylvie’s knee bounced with nervous energy and her dark eyes constantly darted to the doors and windows.
Hypervigilance.
A common symptom of PTSD. An unrelenting, adrenaline-fuelled state where perceived threat is seen in every shadow; every sudden sound; every human encounter.
Heightened awareness the human body was never designed to maintain for longer than a moment of actual danger. To constantly be like this was unbearable and completely exhausting. Like running the engine of a car at a hundred miles an hour, in first gear – day in, day out.
‘You have a different identity,’ Callum was saying. ‘And having lived in France under the Protected Persons Service, for decades, we don’t believe Malecki, or anyone he might be connected to, would know how to find you.’
Sylvie stared at some spot over his shoulder. She hadn’t uttered a word since we’d arrived.
Her brother sat on the sofa beside her, with his arm around her shoulders.
‘The Chief Inspector’s right, Syl. There’s no reason to be scared. They’re going to protect you.’ He looked to Callum. ‘I mean . . . you’ll have someone here with her, until this nutter’s caught, right?’
‘I can arrange to have a marked police car drive past, every evening.’
Harry gawped at Callum. ‘That’s it?’
‘No one knows your new identity, or where you live. We believe you’re safe. I understand your concerns, Harry, but of everyone who might be at risk, we believe Sylvie has the least to worry about. We’ve evaluated the threat levels as very low.’
‘No one knew Dennis Haverley’s name either,’ Harry cut across him, his voice rising. ‘But he’s just as dead! You couldn’t protect him, could you?’
