The Lost Victim, page 16
When Tristan reached the fourteenth floor, he stopped on the final landing. It had no roof, and as he caught his breath, the air was icy in his lungs. He started along the landing and passed a door where loud music played and a dog barked, and there was the far-off hissing roar of the city. Jon Chase lived at the end, and his front door bore many scars, dents, and scrapes, and a round impression slightly smaller than a dinner plate, and Tristan wondered if it was the dent from a battering ram. He stopped outside and listened. Was the television on? It sounded like music was coming from inside. He knocked. Waited a minute and then knocked again harder. On the third attempt, he hammered on the wood.
Tristan knelt down to peer through the letterbox, but it wouldn’t open. It felt like something was behind it blocking it up. Tristan took out his phone and dialled the landline number for Jon Chase listed on 192.com. It started to ring, and a moment later, he heard the phone ringing inside the flat.
There was an odd smell outside the door. Like food gone bad. His hair stood up on the back of his neck. There was something frightening and desolate about this place. The phone was still ringing inside the flat. Roland, or Jon, could be at work. It was perfectly possible on a Tuesday morning. Tristan peered through the grimy window. The blinds were down, but he could see through a small gap at the bottom. A tap was dripping into a sink filled with filthy crockery.
Tristan had his skeleton keys in his bag. He tried calling Kate, to ask what she thought he should do, but her number went to voicemail. He moved back to the door and knelt down. The keyhole was waist high and very old. It wasn’t a Yale lock – it looked like it took a big hulking old key.
He placed his backpack on the ground and took out an oblong leather wallet, slightly larger than a long legal envelope. He unzipped it, and inside were a selection of lock picks and skeleton and bump keys. Tristan had been to several courses over the past few years, training in surveillance techniques, evidence gathering, and, his favourite, picking locks. He hadn’t had much chance to pick locks in the real world, and this was a perfect opportunity.
Tristan looked around. The corridor was empty. Was he jumping to conclusions? What if Jon or Roland was sleeping off a heavy night, or just sleeping? But there was a really bad smell emanating from inside. He looked up at the battle-scarred door, and decided to try one of the bump keys. He inserted it and turned slowly. No. It was wrong. He withdrew it, and selected a rake key with a serrated edge. The air was so cold, and his hands were numb. He slipped it into the keyhole, and the rake key turned with a click. Tristan turned the handle, and the door opened with a creak. A blast of warm, rancid air gusted out, and he stepped inside.
Tristan put his hand over his mouth and nose. It was very warm, and at first, he thought the terrible smell was coming from rotting food in the kitchen. Then he moved through to the living room. It was decorated simply, with plain furniture, and piled with books and magazines and boxes stacked against one wall. There was a single chair in the middle of the room, facing the television, which was switched on.
Sitting in the chair was the dead body of a man wearing a pale T-shirt and underpants. His mouth and eyes were wide open in a look of terror. Long matted hair clung to the head, and the pale T-shirt he wore was torn and, along with his bare legs, splattered with blood. A table lay on its side, and books and papers were strewn amongst broken glass. An arc of dry blood spatter covered the wall above the TV. With his heart thumping, Tristan moved through and checked the other rooms. The flat also had a small bathroom, where a makeshift clothesline hung above the bath. The bedroom was reasonably tidy compared to the rest, the bed was neatly made, and a stack of books waited on the bedside table.
Tristan was shaking and could feel the adrenaline rushing through his body. He went back into the living room. The shelf unit filled with books also contained some ornaments, a feathery piece of dried coral, and some carved wooden balls in a bowl. There were two framed photos, one of a dark-haired man standing beside a waterfall with two young women. And there was a framed photo of Roland, Forrest, and Robert taken inside what looked like a hall. They stood in front of six large cast iron concrete squares, each a metre square or so in size, which were painted with abstract images of people, walking past a river, standing on a mountain, and herding sheep. It looked like the pieces all made up an image when put together. The three lads were smiling and all wearing gloves used for lifting. Tristan quickly took photos of everything, taking care not to touch anything.
He came back into the hall and saw a pile of unopened mail on a table. There were sheafs of bank statements, and he took a pair of latex gloves from the skeleton key wallet and slipped them on. He looked through the bank statements, which were all in the name of Jon Chase. It looked like he had been collecting state unemployment benefits every month. Tristan’s hands shook as he took a photo on his phone of the bank statement, which contained a transaction dated November 2017 – a bank transfer credit of £300 from Forrest Parker.
34
Kate had put her handbag with her mobile in the boot of the hire car, so she didn’t hear Tristan’s call.
The journey up to Wakefield took four hours, and it seemed to go so quickly. Too quickly. Jake had been in contact with the governor at Wakefield prison, who had arranged for them to meet one of the prison guards in the reception of Pinderfields Hospital.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ asked Jake when they were in the visitors’ car park and Kate switched off the engine.
‘Yes. No.’
‘I don’t feel okay, either.’
There was a knock at the window, and a small, squat woman with cropped black hair, wearing a skirt and jacket, peered in through the window.
Kate and Jake got out of the car, grabbing their jackets from the back seat. It was very cold and damp with a light drizzle in the air. They all shook hands, and the woman, Angie, explained she was the press officer from HMP Wakefield. It was quite a long walk through the car park and then along a path to the main hospital building.
‘There are some photographers outside. They seem to have got wind of the fact you’re coming to visit. But just keep your heads down and don’t say anything. I’ll then take you up to Peter’s ward.’
Some didn’t seem to justify the phalanx of photographers and TV news reporters running the length of the main entrance and the pavements outside. When they saw Kate and Jake, a shout went up, and they were mobbed. Kate reached out for Jake, but the back of his coat vanished into a sea of heads and arms carrying cameras. A strobe of bright flashes went off in her face. They were shouting questions, screaming and yelling. Kate could make out a few voices in the cacophony: ‘Are you sad he’s dying?’
‘What’s it like to fuck a serial killer and have his baby?’ was another question. Kate could see that Jake had made it almost to the door. That same feeling from years ago flooded through her. The feeling of being hunted, and of being examined when your skin feels so sensitive. They had her surrounded, and no one was moving. The rain and the hot, stinking breath of a reporter were on her face. And then the cameras seemed to part. Jake appeared, towering over them.
‘Move. Now,’ he said, shoving two of them out of the way. He grabbed her arm, and Kate felt herself being steered through the throng and into the warmth and bright lights of the hospital reception.
It was busy, and everyone turned when they swept through – judgemental and curious faces, and quite a few scowls – as if by just visiting, they were somehow endorsing Peter Conway’s crimes.
‘Shame on you!’ shouted an elderly lady. ‘He should die alone, the evil bastard!’
‘He shouldn’t be here!’ shouted a man. ‘Leave the sick alone.’
They went up in a large, empty lift, which a police officer had held for them. Angie was smart enough not to try and make conversation. They emerged onto a quiet side ward, where another police officer waited behind a makeshift table.
He stood up. He was very tall and athletic, in his mid-thirties, Kate guessed, and he had a baton and a gun on his belt. Through the glass door, they could see another police officer waiting, and it opened and a female officer greeted them.
‘This is Jake Marshall and his mother, Kate Marshall. He’s here as Peter Conway’s next of kin, his son,’ said Angie. This piece of information seemed to land with a thud on the table.
‘Afternoon. I just need to do a quick search,’ said the officer, speaking to Jake. ‘Stand legs apart and put your arms up.’ Jake removed his coat and let the police officer pat him down and use a metal-detecting wand. The female officer indicated for Kate to come closer. Kate took off her coat, and the woman patted her down and then ran the wand over her. When she went to pick up her coat off the table, Kate saw there was raw egg splattered down the back.
‘Who was throwing eggs?’
‘There were a couple of protesters, amongst the press,’ said Angie, ducking out of the way of the metal detector wand, adding, ‘I’m not coming in.’
Kate stared at the raw yolk on the back of her coat. She looked at the two police officers. ‘What’s with the blasé attitude? Throwing eggs at people is assault. Where are the police downstairs?’
‘People have the right to protest about things they don’t agree with.’
‘Don’t agree with,’ repeated Kate. ‘You know nothing.’
The two police officers exchanged a glance.
‘We’re here to ensure Peter Conway doesn’t escape,’ said the male officer. ‘We’ve not been warned about any protests.’
‘You think he’s going to escape whilst he’s on life support and close to death?’ said Kate, feeling the anger rising in her chest. ‘And yet me and my son are egged and jeered and threatened by the mob outside.’
There was silence.
‘We need you to sign in here, and we’ll need ID, passport or photo card driving licence,’ said the male officer.
‘Mum. It’s okay,’ said Jake.
‘No. It’s not. I’ve spent the last twenty years having to deal with this shit. Do these idiots outside “protesting” know that it’s because of me that Peter Conway was caught? Did you know I solved the case?’ The male police officer looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and the other two women just stared. ‘Well, now you do. I probably saved the lives of a good few young women. Did you know he tried to kill me?’ Kate pulled up her sweatshirt, no longer caring what people thought. ‘Look at this scar. He did this. I had to fight for my life, and I still managed to call 999, and that’s the reason he’s been locked up for the past twenty-three years.’ Kate was now shaking. Tears were in her eyes, but she wiped them away furiously. ‘And here you are shrugging and telling me that it’s a legal right for those idiots outside to throw eggs at me and my son!’
‘We can have someone review the CCTV from the main entrance,’ said the male officer.
‘I can get that actioned,’ said the woman. ‘And if we can identify the person who threw them, we’ll pursue an arrest.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate, wiping her eyes. She felt embarrassed at her outburst.
‘Mum. You okay?’ asked Jake, squeezing her hand. ‘You don’t have to come in with me.’
‘Oh. I didn’t come this far not to go in,’ said Kate. Jake took out his passport, and then Kate realised that she didn’t have her bag.
‘I’ve left my handbag in the boot of our hire car.’ The male officer was checking Jake’s passport, and he handed it back.
‘We do need ID.’
‘You want me to go back out through all that downstairs?’
‘This is my mum,’ said Jake. ‘Look at my left eye; it’s orange and blue. We both have this rare condition called sectoral heterochromia, where the eyes have more than one colour. Look, her eye is the same. I know it’s not ID, but she’s my mum.’
‘I can go to your car and get your bag,’ said Angie. There was a careful tone in her voice, like she was placating a madwoman. Angie looked to the police officer.
‘Okay, you can go in, but I need that ID a-sap.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate, handing Angie the keys. ‘It’s a black bag in the boot. There’s also an iPad in its case – can you bring that, too?’
Kate and Jake signed in, and the female officer took them through the doors. A small end ward with three private rooms had been commandeered for Peter Conway. Two of the rooms were empty, and Kate could hear the sound of a heart monitor coming from the doors on the left. A nurse was waiting for them.
‘Come through. He’s just in here,’ she said.
35
It took half an hour for the police to arrive, the longest thirty minutes of Tristan’s life. He waited outside the front door, pacing up and down to keep warm. As the minutes ticked by, he felt the presence of the dead body inside. The blank-eyed corpse sitting there in the chair, staring at the TV. It struck him how lonely and isolated it was on the top floor of Baywater House. The cold, howling wind seemed to block out all thought, and when Tristan kept peering over the edge of the wall down to the car park below, he couldn’t understand why it was so empty and desolate. How did hundreds of people live in this building, and there was no one around?
He saw the three kids wandering around, kicking their heels, but when the first police car arrived, they vanished.
The first police officer to emerge from the lift at the end of the corridor was a tiny, fierce-looking woman with short red hair scraped back off her face. Her large pale ears stood out prominently, and she wore a stab vest with her uniform, which was huge and bulky on her petite frame.
‘Did you place the 999 call?’ she asked, looking him up and down.
‘Yes. The body’s inside. I think he’s been dead awhile.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Tristan Harper. Who are you?’ he replied, his fear making his tone more challenging than he meant it to be.
The officer grabbed the radio on her lapel and kept her eye on him. ‘Yeah, come up. It’s the fourteenth floor, end of the corridor. A guy’s saying he found the body, but can you get him to the support van for questioning.’
‘Questioning? You mean, a statement. I just found the body,’ said Tristan.
‘And why are you here today?’
He rummaged in his pocket and took out Sean Bailey’s card and his agency business card. ‘I’m . . . I know this officer. I’m a private detective, and I think this body is in connection with the case I’m working on.’
Two police officers in uniform came out of the lift and jogged towards them in the corridor.
‘I’m Constable Megan Levitt,’ she said, indicating her warrant card, housed in a plastic pocket in her stab vest. ‘I need you to take him down to the van,’ she added to her colleagues. One of the officers, a tall, burly lad who looked to be no more than a teenager, put out his hand to grab Tristan’s arm.
‘I’m coming to talk to you voluntarily, which I’m happy to do.’ Megan nodded to the officer, who indicated that Tristan should follow. ‘The body is in the living room,’ Tristan added, but they ignored him and went into the flat.
Tristan was placed in a small grubby police van parked in the empty baseball court. He watched as a forensics van arrived an hour later. Another hour passed slowly. The wind rocked the van, and it was so quiet. As if the sight of the police made the few people who’d been milling around go to ground.
Tristan tried to call Kate several times, but couldn’t reach her. He noticed a water cooler in the corner of the van, and he got up to get himself a drink. It was then he tried the door-handle and realised they had locked him inside.
Constable Megan Levitt appeared a few minutes later, carrying a piece of paper. A cold breeze gusted into the stuffy van when she opened the door.
‘Why did you lock me in?’ demanded Tristan, fuming. ‘I’m going to talk to you voluntarily.’
Megan sat on the bench opposite, the tiny plastic table between them.
‘How did you get inside the flat?’ she snapped.
‘I used a key, and I entered because it smelt bad. Like a decaying body,’ said Tristan.
‘The owner gave you a key?’
‘No . . . It was a skeleton key.’
‘So you broke in?’
‘I just said. It smelt bad, like a decaying body.’
‘And you know the smell of a decaying body?’
‘Yes. I’ve had experience of that through my work.’ Tristan took out one of his business cards and slid it across the table.
‘Your occupation is private detective?’ asked Megan, consulting the piece of paper.
‘Yes.’
‘And your name is Tristan Harper?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a criminal record,’ said Megan, turning the sheet over and twisting it around. It was the mug shot taken of him when he was fifteen. He had a sullen look on his face and long greasy hair.
‘Yes. A stupid moment of madness when I was a teenager. I broke the windows in my local youth club . . . I think the body up there belongs to a man called Jon Chase, whose real name is Roland Giles Quintus Hacker.’
Megan eyed him. Tristan went on, ‘I’m investigating a cold case, the disappearance of a young girl called Janey Macklin in December 1988. Jon Chase – or Roland Hacker, as he was known – was one of the close friends of Robert Driscoll, who was accused and then acquitted of Janey Macklin’s murder in 1988. I came here today to try and find Roland Hacker to talk to him . . . Me and my colleague were given access to the cold case files by Superintendent Varia Campbell.’
‘Superintendent Campbell is away on leave.’
‘You’re not listening to me,’ said Tristan. ‘Were your forensics officers able to tell you anything?’
