An Easeful Death (24 page)

De Vakey shrugged.

‘All sorts of ideas here—you know, this could be considered a primer on how to do it.’

He responded to her flippancy with a stern look. ‘This is a textbook for law enforcement agencies.’

‘What about the new edition? It’s geared to the general public. It could give all sorts of ideas to the unstable.’

‘No more than many TV shows and films.’

‘These books need to be taken in as evidence.’

Stevie saw a muscle jumping in the profiler’s jaw. ‘Of course they should, but you should be cautious about jumping to conclusions so soon,’ he said.

‘But look at all this, James. So many of these underlined paragraphs are pertinent to our cases.’

As she flicked through the book, she read snippets aloud: ‘S
exual motivations, domination and control.’
She thumped at the page now open in front of her. ‘And look, here’s Linda Royce’s name in the margin, next to this:
A scene that is staged for the police and for any other unfortunate person who stumbles across the body is often the result of the killer’s perverse desire to entertain.’
Stevie turned to the next page. ‘And this:
The ability to manipulate friends and associates.
Something’s written in the margin, but I can’t read it, it’s too smudged.’

De Vakey took the book from her and squinted at the blur of pencil marks. ‘Names, maybe?’

‘Documents might be able to decipher. It looks like several names have been written then rubbed out.’

De Vakey looked thoughtful. ‘These annotations are certainly interesting but they don’t mean he’s our serial killer.’

Jane Cunningham reappeared with the tea. Stevie snapped the book shut and spoke to De Vakey out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Okay, so he’s not necessarily our killer, but I get the feeling that you know more than you’re letting on. Is there something about the case that you’re not telling me, James? If not Martin Sparrow, who else is it at Central that you and Monty are suspicious about?’

‘All in good time.’ De Vakey turned to the social worker. ‘We’re ready to talk to Mrs Sparrow now. Will you please introduce us?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Stevie muttered to herself. She clenched her fists in frustration and followed them up the stairs. The tea was left untouched on the glass table.

The curtains in Mrs Sparrow’s room were drawn, the only light a pink glow from a small bedside lamp. When the social worker switched on the main light, the old woman blinked at them from above a mound of pink crochet. With a powdery pink complexion her skin seemed as delicate as the smell of rosewater in the air.

‘What have you done with my son?’ she asked in a tremolo after the social worker had introduced them.

Stevie walked across the vacuum-streaked raspberry-coloured carpet, sat on the bed and took the small, soft hand. Useless fingers flopped against hers like creatures without spines.

Stevie said, ‘Your son’s in hospital, Mrs Sparrow, I thought they’d explained that to you.’

Mrs Sparrow made a sound like a collapsing accordion. ‘They said he’d done some bad things.’

De Vakey said, ‘We’re not sure yet. As you know, he’s unconscious and we haven’t been able to talk to him.’

‘My Martin’s a good boy.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ De Vakey said, gently.

‘But he was caught breaking into an apartment,’ Stevie said.

‘Then he must have had his reasons. My Martin’s a thinker. He never does nothing without good reason.’

De Vakey said, ‘Please tell us about your son, Mrs Sparrow.’

After some initial hesitation, Mrs Sparrow warmed to De Vakey’s persuasive tone. She told them about Martin’s albinism, the bullying he’d received at school, his father’s abuse.

‘He was always a clever boy; could’ve gone to university ’cept for his nerves. I failed him, couldn’t keep him safe.’ She looked down at her crippled hands as if realising for the first time that she was as ineffective now as she had ever been. ‘Things got better for a while, his dad died and we bought this house. But then, after all that trouble with Reece, Martin seemed to just go into himself again.’

‘Who was Reece, Mrs Sparrow?’ De Vakey asked.

She drew a breath, a stereophonic rattle of her chest. ‘His mate, Reece Harper.’

Stevie’s eyes shot to De Vakey. He too had recognised the name.

‘They met at church group.’ Mrs Sparrow continued, ‘Reece was a bit slow, had something wrong with his innards, needed one of them bag things. Not many people wanted anything to do with him, but my Martin knew what it was to be the odd man out, and looked after him, like. But then Reece was accused of murdering them girls in the park and the police hounded him day and night. When he’d finally had enough of it he drove head on into a power pole, on purpose Martin said. He’s never forgiven you lot for that. You see Martin tried to tell the police all along that Reece were with him on the night of that first murder, but no one paid him no mind.’

This must be the alibi that Monty had been unable to find, Stevie thought. Someone in Central had tampered with the files and De Vakey seemed to have a good idea who that was. But he was in no hurry to let her in on it. ‘Who?’ she mouthed, digging him in the arm with her elbow.

‘So you noticed a change in Martin’s behaviour after Reece’s death?’ De Vakey asked Mrs Sparrow.

Stevie swore under her breath.

‘Oh yes, he went secretive, was always off somewhere for his flippin’ meetings, least that’s what he called ’em. When I asked him what he was up to he said it was a surprise, he wanted it to be just right before he showed me.’

‘And this has been going on ever since Reece’s death?’

Mrs Sparrow nodded. ‘In fits and starts.’

‘Do you know where Martin was on Thursday night?’

The old woman seemed to be thinking.

‘That was the night before last,’ Stevie added.

‘I was having a bad night. I needed my pain pills but I’d knocked ’em onto the ground and couldn’t get ’em. I called Martin and he came home from work to help me. Because I was feeling so poorly he decided to take the rest of the night off and stay with me.’

‘And he was here all night?’

‘He was lying next to me on the bed. I sleep badly, would’ve known if he’d left.’

‘Highway to Hell’ chose that moment to blast its way into the conversation. Stevie got up from the bed and moved over to the window, mouthing ‘Angus’ to De Vakey. After a few words, she returned to the bed and took the old woman’s hand once more. ‘I’ve got some good news, Mrs Sparrow,’ Stevie smiled. ‘Your son’s woken up.’

***

Twenty minutes into the hospital bed interview, Martin Sparrow still had the demeanour of a glass of milk teetering on a table’s edge. He passed a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead before dropping it onto his lap where it twisted and twined with its partner.

‘I wish I’d never woken up,’ he said. ‘You think I killed those girls in the park and Michelle too.’

His writhing hands looked like mating cuttlefish. Stevie had to force herself to tear her eyes away from them. ‘Then it’s up to you to tell us otherwise. You were one of the last people to see Michelle alive. You were seen arguing with her in a coffee shop.’

Stevie tried not to flinch when Martin blew out a stream of sour breath. ‘She wanted more money for expenses. I agreed eventually, even though it would’ve been a stretch to get it.’

‘Expenses?’

‘Oh God, this is not right, it’s not supposed to be like this.’ He screwed his eyes shut, a movement that must have exacerbated the pain of his swollen face.

She winced in sympathy.

‘What was it supposed to be like?’ Angus said, his tone as patient as ever.

Sparrow swallowed with difficulty. ‘We were writing a book to clear Reece Harper of the park murders. Michelle was talking to people and doing the investigations and I was researching the theory behind the crimes, trying to show up the inconsistencies. I wanted to prove that the murders weren’t committed by the kind of man the police seemed to think they were looking for, and certainly not by anyone like Reece Harper.’

‘Is that why you had all those psychology books in your house?’ Stevie asked.

‘Yes, I was using them as part of my research. I wanted to prove how easy it would be for someone in the know to fool the police, to send mixed and confusing signals. We were going to be famous, make lots of money, that’s what Michelle said, anyway. We were getting so close and then ... and then Michelle was killed. God this is such a mess.’ Sparrow leaned back against the headboard. The glitter of a tear edged its way from beneath one puffy eyelid and spilled down his cheek.

‘I can understand why you were so interested in the park murders, but what about Linda Royce? You’d written her name in one of the books, too.’

‘Because they’re connected. It’s obvious.’

‘How so?’

Sparrow ignored Angus’s question.

‘I didn’t care about the fame anyway,’ he said. ‘All I wanted was to clear Reece’s name and get back at the filth that set him up.’

‘Who set him up, Martin?’ Stevie asked.

Sparrow’s eyes shot open and seared her with the same malevolence she’d seen in Michelle’s apartment.

‘You think I’d tell you, you of all people? I repulse you—I’ve seen how you look at me—but at least I don’t sleep with the devil!’

Stevie and Angus exchanged mystified glances

‘Would you like Sergeant Hooper to leave the room?’ Angus said.

‘I don’t trust you, either. I don’t trust any of you!’ Sparrow’s voice rose as he neared hysteria, one hand reached to his face and began to pick at the stitches near his eye.

Stevie moved to pull it away.

‘Don’t touch me, filth!’

Any moment Stevie expected a nurse to come bursting through the door and demand their immediate departure.

Angus made placating gestures with his hands. ‘All right, Martin, please calm down. Now, tell us who you want to talk to—a lawyer perhaps?’

‘I don’t trust lawyers.’

The detectives let out a collective sigh of exasperation.

‘You have to tell someone what you know, before another girl gets killed.’

Sparrow mulled over the logic of Stevie’s words. After what seemed to be a long battle with his conscience, he said, ‘Okay, I’ll tell Inspector McGuire. Bring him here and I’ll tell him what I know.’

***

‘Damn, damn, damn! Just where the hell is Monty?’ Stevie slammed her mobile phone onto the canteen table.

Angus shook his head and joined her next to De Vakey. He ran his hand over his shiny black hair and rubbed his eyes, the burden of command showing through the new lines on his gaunt face. He looked on with disgust as Barry speared an egg yolk with a chip, stuffing it into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.

‘Funny that Sparrow won’t speak to anyone else,’ Barry mused as he ate. His neglected scalp was fuzzed with dark stubble, giving him the appearance of a battle-weary marine.

Stevie shrugged. ‘I guess he trusts him. I know Mont often went out of his way to talk to the guy, thanked him for cleaning his office and the like.’

‘Maybe we should all be brushing up on our manners,’ Barry said through another mouthful of chips.

Stevie was too preoccupied with her own frustrations to rise to the bait. After swallowing his mouthful Barry took a loud slurp of tea. ‘Did Sparrow say how he got into the apartment?’

Angus said, ‘It’s like the woman next door said earlier, he stole her security wand. He also mentioned that he used to work in a locksmith’s, that picking Michelle’s lock was a piece of cake.’

‘So he went there to retrieve the documents that he and Michelle had been working on.’ Barry turned to De Vakey. ‘Is there still a chance that Sparrow’s the man we’re after, that he’s bullshitting about the book?’

De Vakey shook his head, glancing at Stevie as he spoke. ‘He’s not our man. True, he has a disturbing history. His albinism and poor eyesight resulted in relentless bullying at school. His father was an abusive drunk, his mother an ineffective protector. Those are all problems that could lead to a maladjusted adult with a grudge against the world, but a man with those problems would commit a different kind of crime, not so hands on, if you will. Hit and runs, arson or industrial sabotage would be more common for Sparrow’s type. Our killer and this man are at opposite ends of the personality spectrum. Because of his appearance, Sparrow would stick out like...’ he searched for the words.

‘A snowflake down a coal mine?’ Barry supplied.

De Vakey gave him a tired smile. ‘I wouldn’t have said it quite like that, but yes, that’s the gist of it. Our serial killer will probably blend into the scenery as an average, seemingly respectable guy. And that’s what makes it all the more frightening.’

Barry said, ‘The hobby shop guy, Monty’s neighbour, the waiter. These people all saw him but weren’t able to give us one distinguishing feature to make him stand out from the crowd—our composite sketch has been next to useless.’

‘My point,’ De Vakey said.

‘So our killer’s still out there?’ Barry asked.

‘Most definitely.’

‘Sparrow seems to think the killer’s using your books to cause confusion,’ Stevie said.

De Vakey cleared his throat and adjusted his position on his chair. ‘And if so, that does undermine my profile of him somewhat, but the bottom line is that we’re still looking for a murdering sociopath. Whether he is using my books or not is irrelevant. Whether he’s a textbook serial killer or not is also irrelevant, the end results are the same.’

‘Is Sparrow still under police guard?’ Barry asked Angus.

‘Stringent.’

Wayne appeared as if from nowhere with a glass of milk. He pulled up a chair with a jarring scrape.

If the strain of the case showed in Angus and Barry’s faces, it had all but eaten away at Wayne’s. His skin had turned malarial yellow and his feathery hair was sticking up in tufts.

‘I’ve just heard word. Earlier this evening an APB was put out on Monty,’ he said.

Stevie froze.

‘What the hell they want an all points bulletin on Monty for?’ Barry voiced the question she was too shocked to ask.

‘Seems he’s been doing some unauthorised police work while on suspension. He resisted arrest and injured two dees. Baggly’s farting sparks over it.’