Bye Bye Baby (37 page)

38

Jack woke blearily to the sound of his mobile screaming into his ear. Couldn’t they leave him alone for just a few hours? He squinted at the clock. It was twenty past one in the morning. He’d barely slept. He sighed and answered.

‘Hawksworth.’

‘Sir, it’s DS Jones. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

‘It’s okay, I was getting up around now,’ he lied.

‘I figured you’d want to know that Fletcher’s turned up,’ Sarah said flatly.

‘Dead?’ He held his breath, fully awake now.

‘I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry.’

Jack groaned softly. ‘Brighton?’

‘Hove, a park called St Ann’s Well Gardens. I was there only days ago with Sergeant Moss. He virtually lives in it.’

Jack swung his legs out of bed, scratched his head glumly. ‘I wonder if that’s another of her messages.’

‘Possibly, sir.’

‘What do we know?’

‘Fletcher was found by a young couple just after midnight — they were walking their baby and dog
around the neighbourhood. Apparently the baby’s teething and couldn’t get to sleep. It was all very quiet, as you could imagine — it’s quite a nice area populated with relatively well-heeled people.’

‘How long has Fletcher been dead?’

‘We’re waiting on pathology but they’re rushing it through for us. Early indications suggest about five hours, but that’s just a rough estimation, sir. Ken is doing core temperature, etcetera, back at the lab to give us a more accurate time of death, but given that Fletcher was still in Hastings this afternoon, we know it had to have happened sometime after four but before seven.’

‘Agreed. Have his family and girlfriend been informed?’

‘Someone’s on their way over to his father’s nursing home in Brighton and we’ve contacted Hastings. They’re going to send a car to his girlfriend’s and mother’s places now.’

‘So the father doesn’t live with the mother?’

‘Estranged for years apparently. He’s much older than she is.’

‘What about the van? Anything?’

‘No. Until this couple, Belinda and Howard Evans, found Fletcher, no one in the neighbourhood who has been contacted by police had heard or seen anything connected with the van. Hove branch is planning a doorknock, but I think they want to wait until the morning.’

‘She’s either very lucky, or she’s planned everything to such a finite degree that this whole mission must have been in motion months before she even began her killing spree,’ Jack said.

‘I know you don’t want to hear this, sir, but I can’t help but admire her.’

‘You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.’

Sarah persisted. ‘Ex-Sergeant Moss felt it, too. He said the police let Anne McEvoy down all those years ago. For whatever reason, she turned vigilante, and I imagine a lot of the members of the public are going to quietly applaud her once they realise that they and their families aren’t potential targets of a random killer.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, but I reiterate that we mustn’t lose sight of what we’re charged to do.’

‘No, sir, I have no intention of doing that. I want to find McEvoy, but between you and me, if I ever met her in a soundproofed room, I’d tell her that I understand her actions completely.’

‘I think we all would,’ Jack said quietly, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He wished it were as easy to rub away the sudden vision he had of Sophie. ‘Right, I’ll be at the office in about forty minutes. Can you handle things until then?’

‘Of course. I’ve tracked down Whitey Rowe. I’ll be calling him as soon as is feasible on a Sunday morning, sir.’

‘Don’t hold off, Sarah. He has to understand that this is a major murder investigation, after all.’

‘Will do. See you soon.’

Jack hung up and spent a moment in silence, sifting through his thoughts, mourning Fletcher’s death and their failure to prevent it. He vowed to himself that she wouldn’t find the fifth man — Pierrot, as he was known. Jack intended to find Pierrot first and save him Anne’s butchery, but not because he wanted to
help the man. No, Jack’s determination to get to him first was so he could put him behind bars for the maximum sentence any court could impose. Life in a British jail might be considered by some as a soft option, but Jack knew better. He knew this guy would suffer at the hands of his inmates and would likely end up yearning for the numbing effect of Anne’s drugs and the near painless death she offered.

Anne woke to the early morning local news that the body of a man had been discovered in St Ann’s Well Gardens in Hove by a couple. She watched the woman being interviewed by a reporter hungry for the theatre that surrounded a suspicious death, who was rewarded by Belinda Evans breaking down in tears. Anne regretted the young woman’s distress and tried to assure herself that she’d soon forget the trauma of the grisly discovery and hopefully dine out on the story in years to come.

She took herself and her overnight bag into the bathroom and eventually emerged a brunette — no more wigs, she’d decided. She’d twisted her hair back into a clip and was quite pleased with the result.

By eleven she was dressed in jeans, her Docs and a short but baggy cardigan over a warm, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her waterproof jacket was in the car. It was all normal daywear in neutral colouring and instantly forgettable, which was her intention. She kept her face devoid of make-up and returned to her eyes the lenses that made them an intriguing dark brown.

In Patcham, she found a phone box and dug out her notebook and the section on Phil Bowles, which gave her his phone number and street address. Phil
hadn’t been hard to find. He’d never left the area and a search through directory enquiries online had soon yielded his number.

She dialled it now and held her breath.

They’d been sitting there for hours, both so tired but trying to keep each other alert with mindless conversation about favourite films, favourite pubs, hottest dates and maddest moments — anything to keep themselves from silence and the opportunity to drift into a doze. Kate and Swamp joined in on their walkie-talkies, determined to stay awake in their respective cars where they were watching for any sighting of Anne McEvoy.

Hawksworth and Brodie jumped at the sound of the ringing phone. This was the third call to Bowles’s home; the first two from men. Brodie had pretended to be a friend of Phil’s and said that Phil had just gone to the corner shop. Neither man had left a message. Now Jack alerted his colleagues outside to another call.

‘Do I use the same line if it’s her?’ Cam said.

‘Absolutely. Play it safe, just stick to the story. She’ll decide when to let you know that it’s her.’

Cam picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Phil Bowles?’

Even though Jack wanted it to be her, it still gave him a shock that she’d come into their web with such ease. He stuck his thumb in the air at Cam. No one could know how hearing that voice made him feel weak with despair inside.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Phil, I hope you’re going to remember me. It’s Anne McEvoy here.’

Cam had rehearsed his response to this situation over and over again. And now he replayed it precisely how he and Jack had practised. First he hesitated, then he repeated the name, remembering the quiet way in which Bowles spoke and how he tended to lick his lips when he was thinking. ‘Anne McEvoy?’

‘Yes, Anne . . . from Russell Secondary School.’

Now he deliberately fell silent but breathed a little more loudly.

‘Phil? Phil, are you there?’

‘I’m here,’ he said softly. ‘Why . . . why are you calling me?’

‘Phil, you sound scared. Don’t be.’

Cam remained silent and forced Anne to talk. Meanwhile, Jack had set in motion the check through British Telecom, using a secure line via the Met, as to where this call was coming from. The operater told him it would take a couple of minutes.

He returned his attention to the landline Cam was talking to Anne on and realised it had gone dead. They looked at each other, shocked.

‘She can’t be on to us,’ Cam said.

‘Fuck!’ Jack slammed down his mobile. He quickly dialled the Yard again, apologised, reorganised a secure line.

‘What happened?’ It was Kate, crackling over the walkie-talkie.

Jack grabbed the handset. ‘It was her but the line — hang on.’ The phone had begun ringing again. He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. ‘She’s back. Hold the silence.’ Once again he asked the operator to contact BT to trace the call.

Cam answered again. ‘Hello?’

‘Sorry, Phil, this is a dodgy phone, I don’t know what happened there.’

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘Hove.’

‘No, I mean why a phone box?’ He was trying to keep her on the line as long as possible so Jack could trace her.

‘I’m having some work done at home, so there’s nothing but hammering and men talking, and to make matters worse I’ve mislaid my mobile. Murphy’s law, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Cam said, remembering to lower his voice and speak a little more haltingly. ‘Why are you calling out of the blue? You’re not collecting money for some cause, are you?’

She laughed and Jack was again struck by despair that this was Sophie on the other end of the line. He simply couldn’t put it together that she was also the ruthless serial killer that had the whole of Britain talking.

‘No, no, I’m not collecting money. I’m actually ringing because I have something you may want.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you still collect Biggles books?’

Cam looked to Jack for guidance. His boss nodded.

‘Yeah, of course. Once a Biggles fan, always one.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, I know this must feel strange to suddenly hear from me but as I say, I’m having a lot of work done at my place and I’m clearing out a pile of stuff. I came across this box of my dad’s books and there are about fourteen Biggles novels. They’re in such amazingly perfect condition
that I didn’t have the heart to take them to the charity shop. And then, a blast from the past, I suddenly remembered how much you loved reading this stuff. I know it sounds crazy but I thought I’d try and find you — I think also for old times’ sake. I must admit I didn’t imagine it would be so easy.’

Cam paused, rather too dramatically, Jack thought. He’d heard from the BT operation that this was a phone box in Patcham — he had the number and street it was on. He knew there was no point in dispatching a car — he didn’t anticipate that she would be on the line long enough — but at least he knew now that she was definitely in the Brighton area and accessible. He listened to Cam.

‘But, Anne, why after all these years would you remember me?’

‘I can hardly forget you, Phil.’ Her voice took on a slightly harder edge and Cam sensibly waited for the silence to feel awkward.

‘I don’t really want to talk about that time,’ he said.

‘Neither do I. I was just trying to do something kind. Don’t you find yourself reminiscing now that you’re in your forties? I know I do. I’ve been thinking a great deal about all those people we went to school with. But look, if you don’t want these books . . .’

‘I do, really,’ Cam spluttered, breathing heavily. ‘But this is so strange, you must admit.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Cam continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I mean, what with the deaths of Mikey and Clive, I’m just a little shak—’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Haven’t you heard about them?’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Sheriff and Clive Farrow. They’re dead.’

Cam and Jack listened to the long silence that followed before their caller said softly, ‘Dead?’ She made a sound of regret. ‘I . . . no, I’ve been living overseas, I haven’t heard anything. How can they both be dead?’

‘Not just dead, Anne, but murdered.’

The woman Jack had so recently thought he could fall in love with inhaled sharply, as if slapped. ‘Murdered?’ she whispered. Then conveniently made the connection: ‘Not Pierrot?’

Cam was ready. ‘Who else?’ he said. ‘I’m scared, I have to tell you. I only heard about them myself a week ago. I’m changing my phone numbers and having a new alarm fitted and fresh security around all the windows. Then I’m going away for a while, I think, until the police catch him.’

‘Wow, what a shock,’ Anne said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

Cam gave Jack a wry glance.

‘Anne, I have to tell you I’m not terribly comfortable about you calling. But at the same time, I’ve longed to talk to you for years and tell you how sorry I am about what happened.’

Both men waited. They heard a sigh.

‘Phil, I think I knew that if you’d had a choice, you wouldn’t have gone along with what happened. I used to be really angry about it, but although I won’t say I’m over it, I have put it firmly in my past. I can’t fix what happened, or bring my son back. I thought at least a million times about killing myself but never had the courage, so I’ve worked hard to make the best of my life. I never blamed you, Phil, but I do blame that
bastard Pierrot, or whatever his real name is. I never went to the police because I didn’t know who he was, and after it all happened I was totally spaced out, you know . . . so completely confused. I just ran away. And then it was too late to start making accusations — I was too young to know what to do, who to turn to. I let it be. As I say, I wasn’t going to get my life back, no matter what I did. I honestly don’t think about 1974 very much at all.’

‘Don’t you? I think about it all the time. And I’m deeply, deeply sorry on behalf of all of us. You know that none of us boys ever touched you, Anne, don’t you? It was him. He did all the bad stuff. I wish I could make amends but I know I can’t.’

‘No, you can’t, Phil. Perhaps I should just leave these books somewhere for you? I’m happy to drop them on your doorstep.’

‘Oh, that wouldn’t be fair. Let’s at least say hello, no matter how awkward it is for both of us.’

‘Well, that’s nice. Seems you’ve certainly changed from the Phil Bowles I recall.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely,’ she said. ‘Do you still live in your grandparents’ place?’

‘How do you know that?’ Cam asked, unsure of how to play this now.

‘You’ve forgotten that we were once friends in primary school, Phil. I came to your birthday party — those were the days when you used to like pretending to be a dog. Odd but funny.’