A Question of Identity (27 page)

‘He’s got a match on Saturday afternoon and it’s an away so he won’t be back till after seven.’

‘Sunday morning then, all other things being equal.’

‘Right . . . How’s Rachel?’

Her brother looked up, and at once she saw his expression blank as he pulled down the old, invisible portcullis.

‘Fine.’

‘I guess the job doesn’t give you much time with her either at the moment.’

‘No. Want some more of this?’

Cat shook her head. ‘I’ll have to get back after a quick coffee. Silke doesn’t stay overnight.’

Simon got up. Cat removed the plates. The coffee was made. They sat on the white sofa in his beautiful long sitting room, perfectly amicably, yet a hundred miles apart.

‘Have you got any further forward with these killings?’

‘A bit. Got some files to go through here.’ He pointed to the pile on the table.

‘It’s looking as if we just might have a breakthrough, which God knows we need.’

Cat finished her coffee. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

Five minutes later she was driving out of the close. Rachel’s name had not been mentioned again.

AFTER CAT HAD
gone Simon cleared the table, poured himself another black coffee and opened the large file Nathan had brought. He also opened his laptop and slid in the CD.

He knew what was coming but, in general, a detective is well used to seeing unpleasant sights, and he went through the photos carefully, examining each one in detail.

The images of three elderly women, dead in Yorkshire, could have come from the crime scenes at Duchess of Cornwall Close. The way the bodies, all of them wearing nightdresses, one a woollen cardigan on top, had been posed sitting in front of mirrors, the way they had been strangled, the yellow-and-green electrical flex . . . the women were different, but everything else was startlingly the same. He clicked through more photographs, close-ups, pictures of beds, doors, windows, wardrobes, dressing tables, mirrors, then of the women’s faces, necks, hands. And feet. Bare feet with freshly clipped toenails. He looked quickly through exterior shots of a complex of sheltered flats and bungalows, older than those in Lafferton but not dissimilar in layout or type.

The file contained the pathologist’s reports, SOCO reports, details of forensic analyses, dustings for prints. Then came the details of the trail that had led to Alan Keyes being arrested and charged – the result of a lucky break. Keyes had been caught on CCTV cutting through the town centre and had come just within range of the cameras at a bank, at three in the morning,
after the last murder. No one else was about. The cameras captured only one or two random cars and a stray dog. CCTV on every building in the city centre, on the nights of the other murders, had been examined but he had obviously been careful to steer clear of them. His image was fuzzy but they had done their best with it and the press had gone to town. Soon after the lunchtime news, the calls had started to come in. Alan Frederick Keyes had been arrested that day.

At two in the morning Simon was reading the accounts of the trial in disbelief. The evidence against Keyes was solid. The press had had him hung, drawn and quartered well in advance.

And he had been acquitted.

After the full transcript of the trial, and the judge’s final remarks, the file came to an abrupt end. Someone had pencilled ‘Case closed’ on the last page. That was that.

Serrailler went to bed puzzled but buoyant. Find Alan Frederick Keyes and he’d find his own killer.

The following morning when he arrived in his office at eight o’clock, the photographs taken from Nobby Parks’s phone had been downloaded and sorted and were in a file on Simon’s computer. Forensics had eliminated a few obvious non-starters – blanks, flashes of brilliant light and nothing else, close-ups of brick walls, pictures of the road surface, a set of bus tyres and a patch of grass. These were in a side file.

He got his first coffee of the day and started on those they had signalled as worth further attention, though even of these at least half seemed to him of little use or relevance. But the others – maybe fifteen shots – he saved in a new file, to look at more closely. He also copied the whole team in on them.

Three looked of certain interest. The first was a shot of Rosemary Poole in the entrance to her bungalow, looking out, but with her hand on the door as if she was about to close it. The light was poor, the shot obviously taken late in the afternoon. He enlarged it by 200 per cent. It went completely out of focus. 150 per cent . . . not much better. At 75 per cent he could see Mrs Poole’s face more clearly. She looked as if she had been
saying something to a person just ahead. Perhaps she was greeting them, perhaps saying goodbye.

The next was the rear of a white van with the number plate, all but the last digit, clearly visible.

The third was of the grass outside the bungalows, frosted over but also struck by a shaft of thin wintry sunlight. A shadow – no, not a full shadow, maybe half or two-thirds of one – lay across the grass. It was almost certainly the shadow of a person, but he could not tell much more.

At nine fifteen, Simon had the whole team in the CID room. The photos were up on the screen.

‘Keep looking at them,’ Simon said. ‘Get the images in your head. Nobby Parks was hanging around the D of C houses at all hours, usually after dark. He took these pics at random – he was playing with his toy without a clue how to use it. But there’ll be something on these . . . some detail, some link . . . it won’t hit you in the face – if it did you’d have got it. But there’ll be something.’

He filled them in on the files Nathan had brought down. ‘The case is out there – HOLMES, court proceedings, national and local papers. Won’t take you more than an hour to bring yourselves completely up to speed with Alan Frederick Keyes and the Yorkshire murders which are blow-by-blow the exact same as ours here. Only difference, there were three elderly victims up there, we only have two and let’s make sure it stays that way. I want everything you can find about this man Keyes – everything in Yorkshire, before and after the murders and the trial, but more importantly since then. That’s ten years. Search our force’s database – all the forensics, CRIMIN, every sort of local and area record. I want to know where he’s living, what he’s doing. This is now our number-one suspect. I want him found. I want him brought in. When he’s here, I want him grilled until his ears smoke. But we’ve got to catch him first. Local records, electoral register, council tax lists, register of marriages . . . Link anything you find with the info I’ve given you from the file. It’s on your computer now, code name ‘BarleyMow’. Keep it there. If you strike gold and find any sort of photograph, bring it to me. But I don’t just want his picture. I want him.’

LONDON. HE WOULD
never want to live here again but for an occasional day there was nothing to beat it and he always returned home feeling reinvented, ready to raise the stakes, challenge himself all over again, both in work and as an artist. Why it had this effect of a quick inhalation of pure oxygen Serrailler could never quite suss out but it hadn’t failed him and he knew it wouldn’t fail him now. He stopped his cab at the top of the Mall. It was cold but the sun was bright. There had been a state visit a few days previously and the flags were still out. He walked down the wide paths, past St James’s Palace, past Clarence House, and turned to climb the steps into Carlton House Terrace when there was the sound of massed hooves coming at a spanking pace up the Mall towards him. The Household Cavalry, jingling and sparkling, plumes swaying, went past to the occasional tourist’s camera and wave, lifting his heart. As a small boy he had longed to be one of those guardsmen looking resplendent on their way to Buckingham Palace, or escorting the Queen’s state coach or carriage. He remembered with a smile holding a silver-painted wooden sword, riding the arm of the sofa throughout Trooping the Colour.

He was meeting Joel Winslow, now a professor, at his club. Winslow had been his lecturer on the two profiling courses he had taken, and had even tried, without success, to persuade Simon to divert his career that way. They had forged a bond
and Simon had gone to him for an opinion about peculiar or difficult cases once or twice before. Winslow would not be proud of him for making such a basic error after the murder of Elinor Sanders.

‘Always bear the alternative in mind,’ he said now, as they sat in the bar before going in to lunch. ‘This isn’t an exact science, Simon. I seem to remember trying to impress that on you.’

‘You did. I’m doing more than kick myself.’

‘Don’t bother. In general, you were right. Your man was more than likely to wait a few weeks or even much longer before he killed a second time. Your only mistake was in upgrading a “likely” to a “definite” and calling off the patrols.’

‘I didn’t call them off. I halved them – and some.’

They were sitting at the end of the bar, a comfortable room adjacent to the entrance hall. Serrailler had been to this club a few times and enjoyed the excellent food and the handsome rooms, some small and intimate, others vast, formal and rather intimidating, with high ceilings and huge portraits on the walls. The dining room was wood-panelled with tables well separated, so that private conversations were perfectly possible. He wouldn’t like to belong to one of these places, though his father loved it, but he could enjoy the surroundings and also be amused by the people. Club members out of central casting, he thought, as two entered the bar now. Pinstripes, stiff collars, plum-coloured faces.

‘From what you’ve told me, it’s pretty clear that the second killing was out of necessity rather than choice.’

‘He got the wind up.’

‘The old lady saw him or heard him, or else he thought she had. He couldn’t take the risk. But he still killed in the same meticulously organised way, he was very much in control. No panic, no mistakes, even if he was in a hurry. He’s a cool customer, this one. Anything else you can tell me?’

Over their excellent, entirely traditional lunch – potted shrimps, rare beef from the trolley, cheese, a bottle of the house claret – Simon went over the killings again, stressing the trademarks and telling him the confidential secrets that had been kept from the press and the public.

‘Give me a portrait of your killer,’ Joel said, ‘see if I agree.’

‘Psychopath. Sadist. Ritualist.’

Joel nodded, his mouth full of Yorkshire pudding and gravy.

‘Loner.’

‘Not necessarily. Loner inside himself certainly – but he could live a perfectly ordinary life otherwise. He won’t want to draw attention to himself in the normal course of things. He can blend in.’

Simon described Nobby Parks but after only a few sentences Joel shook his head.

‘This man is highly organised, neat and tidy, folds his clothes. And he isn’t so stupid as to wander about the area in which he operates, at night, being seen, having patrol cars take him home. Rule him out – well, the usual 99 per cent anyway. You always leave a crack to let yourself back in, but I put money on it not being this Nobby Parks.’

‘Grudge against old women.’

‘Possibly, yes. Had an elderly female relative who treated him badly when he was a child. He could have been brought up by her – a grandmother, an older aunt. He hated her, and more than likely, that was because she humiliated him. He’s getting his own back for that – he’s humiliating his victims. Making them sit in front of a mirror, cutting their toenails. I wonder if he was made to do that for this old relative when he was a boy?’

‘Or she could have cut his, and he felt ashamed or embarrassed.’

‘So this would be a way of getting his own back.’

‘What sort of age?’

‘More difficult. Somewhere between thirty and fifty? He’s still physically strong and he’s fit.’

‘You don’t have to be that strong to kill an eighty-year-old woman. Could “he” be a “she”?’

‘Possibly.’

‘But if this is a twisted sort of vengeance on the old woman relative, why does he – or she – need to go on killing? Isn’t one enough? He’s had his revenge.’

‘It’s satisfying – the first time, he felt a terrific high. So far as he was concerned, he’d got his own back, even if it wasn’t
actually on the same woman. But after a while, it started eating into him again. And, he’d enjoyed it. That’s the other key. He likes killing. He likes the way he does it. He likes to humiliate.’

The cheeseboard was not over-elaborate. A half-truckle of Cheddar. Stilton. A creamy white Cheshire. Nothing foreign, nothing runny. Classic, Simon thought, as a slice of Cheddar was laid reverently on his plate. The celery was in a proper celery jar. There were no other embellishments.

‘And he keeps trophies. They usually do. Sometimes they cut a lock of hair. Quite a few sadistic killers of younger women, prostitutes and so on, have been known to take pubic hair. In this case it might be nail clippings. He may collect newspaper reports of his murders and when the police get something wrong he’ll gloat. Or he could keep it all on a computer. If he lives with someone, wife or girl or boyfriend, that’s easier to conceal. He knows his way round. Round the police system, round houses, especially this sort. Round the town. This is night-time but there’s always somebody about – a late taxi, a police patrol, someone walking home from a late shift or a club, someone taking a dog for a last pee – so he won’t march prominently down the main roads, he’ll take short cuts and alleyways and know his way round back gardens and across rough ground.’

‘Local then.’

‘Oh yes.’

Simon had not mentioned the Alan Keyes case files to Joel and, on the spur of the moment, decided to keep them to himself for the time being.

They drank coffee sitting on the sort of library armchairs in which old men fell asleep. One or two were already doing so, newspapers sliding gently onto their laps. The coffee was the only thing with which he could find fault. It was filter, it was bitter, and it was not hot enough.

Time he got back home.

‘Anything else you want to run past me, call,’ Joel said as they parted on the flight of marble steps that led to the door.