A Wreath for my Sister (11 page)

The day beckoned grey, cold and uninviting as Joanna drew back the curtains the next morning, but as she showered she felt exhilarated at the thought of the ride ahead and began to plan her day. It was time to meet Doreen Priest, Sharon's mother, but the prospect depressed her. The uniformed boys had informed Mrs Priest of her daughter's death and told her she would be interviewed later, but Joanna always found it hard – expressing sorrow and at the same time relentlessly pumping out the information she really needed, the less savoury details of a person's life. And she needed to talk to Christine Rattle again. There were so many unanswered questions. How many of them was she able to answer? Who was the man Sam Finnigan had found his wife in bed with? How had Paul Agnew been so sure Ryan had not been his son? Who was the unknown married man and why had they parted so acrimoniously? Had his wife known of his infidelities? Had she cared?

She squeezed a couple of oranges into a glass, switched the kettle on, then prepared some ground coffee. Years ago her mother had taught her to savour the food she ate. She poured out a dish of cereal and took the tray into the dining room so she could watch the birds fight over the mesh stocking of peanuts. But her mind kept pondering the case. And as she sat and ate her breakfast she had the distinct feeling that some of her questions would never be answered and a few of Sharon Priest's secrets would lie with her in her grave. When she got there. Permission for burial might not be released for several weeks yet.

She drank her coffee thoughtfully. And now there was this other murder. Would it further complicate the case or help solve it? She would have to speak to the Macclesfield investigating officers. And there was something else lying at the back of her mind, nagging away like a toothache. The wire cable twisted round the girl's neck until it bit her flesh and extinguished her life. Twisted, slim steel cable that reminded her vaguely of something ... and she couldn't think what. Perhaps at the morning briefing some bright spark might enlighten her.

And then there was the suggestion she had made last night to the Super – that the killer came from Leek. Had he?

But if he hadn't, how had he known things about Sharon? How had he known she would look good in red? Had he a fondness for red and had merely said it without knowing?

But he knew her name. He knew the car she drove.

Joanna shook her head. He had to have been known to her. She must interview Christine again.

She stepped outside into the morning drizzle and watched the mist rising over the silent canal.

She was still frowning as she wheeled her bike out of the garage.

For the first fifty yards she felt cold on the bike, chilled by the wind, her legs stiff and tired from her car-driving days, and she wondered why the hell she bothered to cycle at all. Then the strength seemed to warm and invigorate her, make her legs quick and strong and she began to pedal to a hidden rhythm, humming as she moved.

‘Hi.' It was Stuart drawing alongside her, white teeth flashing.

She grinned back at him, the pleasure of being on her bike making her suddenly happy. The day promised well.

He watched her critically as she pedalled up the hill. ‘You're not doing badly, though.'

She felt hugely pleased at the compliment and they were silent companions until they reached the hill and the cars pulled past.

Stuart gave the drivers a sour look. ‘The traffic's been awful the last couple of mornings.' He winked. ‘Traffic lights on the main Cheddleton road. Lorries like a wall.'

She laughed and they shared the easy companionship of two people who enjoy the fresh air, the exercise, the challenge of a steep hill, not people who took the easy way. She watched with pleasure his feet flashing up and down, the slim figure bent low over the handlebars. He was fit. She had real trouble keeping up with him and after a minute or two she started panting.

‘Whew,' she said as they neared the top of the hill. ‘I'm sure this hill's getting both longer and steeper.'

‘Bend down a bit lower,' he suggested.

‘Can't. It knackers my back.'

He laughed. ‘You'll soon get used to it. Just keep trying.'

‘I do,' she said and she felt envious of the slim form, his strong legs, the seemingly effortless ride.

As soon as the road flattened out she felt a surge of energy.

‘Great,' he said. ‘Well done.'

They pedalled a bit quicker and were soon at the point where Joanna turned off. She raised her hand and waved. ‘Bye, Stuart. I'll see you again, I expect.'

He grinned and carried on along the road and she turned into the station car park and locked her bike to the railings.

Mike was waiting for her in her office, a sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Can I speak to you before the briefing?'

‘What is it, Mike?' She sat down.

He stared at her, his face pale and tense. ‘It's these letters,' he said.

Her pulse quickened. ‘What about them?'

‘Prince Charming to Cinderella,' he said, sinking down into the chair. ‘How can she have been such a fool?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Joanna, just listen to a few sentences. “Do you ever wonder why I love the colour red?”'

She frowned. ‘Nothing in that.'

“‘My dreams of you are in red because to me it is a special colour. Blood, wine, roses.”' Mike jabbed the word with his finger. ‘Blood, Joanna.'

‘She might not have read anything into that.'

He picked up another letter. ‘Then what about this? “Sometimes I dream I am making love to you.'”

‘Nothing in that either.'

Mike didn't even look at her as he read out the next sentence. “‘Until you beg me to stop.'”

She was alerted now, like a hound with the scent of quarry in its nostrils. ‘Go on.'

‘“But, Sharon, my little bird,”' he quoted, “‘I won't stop. And in the end what I desire you will want too. I promise.”'

‘Are they all like that?'

Mike could hardly look at her. ‘They're all the same, Jo –'

‘All on the edge of perversion.'

She sat, silently pondering, then looked at him. ‘Any fingerprints?'

He shook his head. ‘Anyone with the IQ of a gnat would know to wear gloves but we'll get them checked out anyway.'

She shuddered. ‘They're horrible, Mike.'

‘But what beats me is why did she go out with him? It's obvious the guy was a complete pervert. Why the hell did she go?' His face took on a puzzled look. ‘Any woman – surely – would smell a rat at this sort of stuff.' He slapped the letters down on her desk. ‘So why?'

‘I think,' she said slowly, ‘I can answer that one. Christine said above all Sharon dreamed of excitement.'

‘But surely ...'

‘No woman thinks she'll be harmed. They all dream of taming a stranger.'

‘God,' Mike said disgustedly. ‘What fools women can be.'

‘And what ...'

‘Yes – all right.'

They stared at one another, both disturbed by the contents of the letters.

It was Joanna who moved first. ‘I'd better get on with the briefing,' she said.

She began with the map pinned up on the board and a resumé of the case. Then she gave a brief description of the Macclesfield murder.

It was Timmis who picked up the point. ‘Are we sure they're connected?'

‘The MO is exactly the same,' Joanna said. ‘It's too much of a coincidence that there should be two such similar murders a few miles apart. However, we're doing tests at the lab and the Cheshire Police should give us more info. We'll know more later on today. I'll keep you informed at tonight's briefing. The DNA tests, as you know, can take a while. For now,' she said, ‘I want you to treat this as a routine murder hunt. In other words, focus your questioning on Sharon Priest's life and death. Bu ...' She glanced around the room, ‘if Stacey Farmer's murder is connected, I'm sure you realize, it's quite a man-hunt.'

There was a ripple of subdued comments. Everyone was watching her.

‘According to the criminal psychologist we're probably looking at a man in his mid-twenties to thirties. Someone who was dominated by his mother in his formative years.'

The murmurs grew louder and she caught one or two of the uniformed boys glancing at each other with a look of sceptical amusement. She knew they mistrusted her reliance on science. Leg work would be what solved this case. And not some bloody trick cyclist sitting in his ivory tower ...

She smiled. No matter how many times psychologists were proved right, some of these officers would never be convinced. She ignored the murmurs and carried on reading out the psychologist's report.

‘... then married and almost certainly divorced or separated. Possibly with children.'

A few of them groaned.

Timmis spoke. ‘That describes half the male population of Leek,' he said gloomily. ‘They're all married and divorced, separated, remarried, living in sin.'

‘Yes, I know,' Joanna agreed. ‘But it also describes two men we know who had recent, intimate relationships with Sharon. Sam Finnigan, her ex-husband. Thirty-seven years old, the father of two of her children, October and William. They were divorced two years ago. We know he is a violent man, that he was charged with ABH after he found her in bed with another man.' The wave of sympathy was tangible as it moved around the room.

‘He broke her jaw,' she said sharply.

Mike, on her right, moved uncomfortably. ‘Do we know who the other man was?'

She shook her head. ‘No. But I want you to work at finding out who he was, Mike. In other words, listen to the gossip.'

She turned her attention back to the roomful of police. ‘Then her ex-boyfriend, Paul Agnew. He works at the oatcake shop in Pick Street. We don't know much about him except that he smokes grass. Supposedly he kicked her out just over a year ago when he found out she was pregnant.' She stopped. ‘For some reason he refused to believe the child – Ryan – was his.'

A muttering moved around the room.

‘Yes ... yes,' she said impatiently. ‘I've worked that one out too. But they were together less than a year. Unless he was impotent...'

All the males in the room shifted uncomfortably. This was a word that made them uneasy. Incest, murder, rape ... These words they could cope with. But impotence ...

‘Well,' she said, ‘this is something we need to find out, isn't it?' She faced them. ‘Because if he was impotent he can't have bloody well raped her, can he?'

She turned back to the board and chalked up two more references. ‘As well as those two suspects, according to her friend Christine Rattle Sharon had had an affair with a married man. We know very little about him except that she said he was “well off”. Remember Sharon was barely financially solvent. Practically anyone with a Barclaycard and a bank account would have fitted the bill. So don't go hunting out all the local millionaires and accusing them.'

There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

‘We don't know the name of this married man, but it seems they had some sort of a row. Christine thought it was something to do with the baby who Christine believed was his son. Maybe he helped her financially with the child,' she said, recalling the expensive quilt on Ryan's cot.

She glanced at Mike, spoke in a soft aside. ‘I'll ask Christine again about this guy.'

‘Then there is the man who signed himself Prince Charming, the man we believe answered her ad in the personal column. Sharon's last date.' She blinked. According to Christine, he seemed to know things about Sharon that she definitely hadn't told him. She had all their attention now. ‘I know,' she said. ‘Explain that if you can. I can't, except by saying Prince Charming was someone who already knew his Cinderella.' Quickly she explained the reasons as she had discussed them with Colclough the night before.

‘There is something else you should all know.' She glanced around the room. ‘Prince Charming wrote Sharon several letters. Mike has been looking through them.' She paused. ‘They show distinct evidence of perversion. This man is dangerous to women.'

She looked up. ‘Any questions?'

‘Have you any idea who Prince Charming is?'

‘He could be anybody,' she said quietly. ‘But I think it was the same Prince Charming who raped and garrotted Stacey Farmer in Macclesfield.'

‘And you think he knew our girl, Sharon?'

Joanna perched on the corner of the desk and crossed her legs. ‘As Colclough was warning me last night,' she said, ‘we need to keep an open mind. But, as said, the modus operandi was exactly the same for both girls.' She paused. ‘Both were picked up in a pub, as a result of lonely hearts ads. There were other similarities too. Stacey was a single-parent mum, desperate for romantic love, adventure ... call it what you like. She was met at a pub by a man who would be difficult to recognize again – his anorak hood was turned up. He looked at no one, crossed the bar straight to her and they left together immediately. And she was raped, then garrotted. The killer used fine steel cable with part of a wooden broom handle to twist it.'

McBrine spoke up. ‘Why?' he asked. ‘Why use the broom handle?'

‘Have any of you tried twisting cable?' she asked, her eyes sweeping the room.

No one had.

‘To kill someone with wire as thin as that,' she said, ‘would have cut our killer's hands. He needed to exert a certain amount of pressure. Therefore he used a broom handle.'

She glanced around the room. ‘What I find most disgusting,' she said, ‘is the fact that he preyed on two such needy and vulnerable women.' She paused. ‘Both wanted to meet somebody who was kind to them – who cared for them – their idealized Prince Charming. And both were looking for excitement to light up their humdrum lives. Only in this case he wasn't exactly Prince Charming. More like Vlad the Impaler.