Bye Bye Baby (4 page)

The lift worked perfectly and Jack suspected it was only the first level that had been knocked out for some reason. They ascended to the top floor. Mrs Becker chose the door knocker over the less intrusive and clearly lit bell. She knocked again a few moments later and was answered by a voice calling out that she was coming.

The door opened. ‘Yes?’ said the new occupant, looking sideways at them because her wheelchair and a door opening inwards was a bad combination. ‘Can I help you?’

Mrs Becker smiled but said nothing, so Jack filled the void.

‘Hi. I’m Jack Hawksworth. I live in the apartment below you, and the trip switch went off in one of the
other apartments. We thought we should do the neighbourly thing and check all was okay with you. This is Mrs Becker, by the way.’

The woman in the wheelchair beamed and Jack felt drawn to the warmth of the smile. ‘How kind. Um, all’s well here, but thank you.’ She reached out her hand. ‘I’m Sophie. Sophie Fenton.’

Jack took it, noticing the well-kept nails and the waft of his favourite perfume. Amy wore it sometimes, and although it was an old brand it was a classic. He was going to mention it but bit his tongue. It might come out as though he was flirting. Wheelchair-ridden or not, Sophie Fenton looked terrific with her hair tied carelessly in a ponytail and wearing baggy grey trackies, the hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal that she had smooth skin and, from what he could see, a very nice upper half. Sophie was now shaking Mrs Becker’s hand, her golden hair glinting beneath the lights in her hallway.

Jack shifted from one foot to the other, embarrassed that he was staring so long and hard. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘so again forgive the disruption, but at least we all got to say hello. I’m actually truly embarrassed it’s taken me so long.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with the smile she still wore. ‘It’s great to meet you both, and I hope the painters, removalists and all the banging around didn’t cause you too much grief as I settled in?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. In fact, I didn’t even know you had physically moved in until just before Christmas,’ he admitted, again reminded of the Christmas pudding.

‘I’ve been here since late November, but to be honest, you’re as much a stranger to me. I’m exceptionally good at remembering faces and I’ve not seen you coming or going.’

Jack felt the familiar surge of shame. ‘I don’t keep very regular hours.’

Mrs Becker was shaking her head. ‘I used to hear the previous owner’s loud music. You won’t be playing loud music, will you?’

‘Not when I can’t dance to it, no,’ Sophie said, stealing an amused glance at Jack after realising the humour was lost on Mrs Becker. He returned a slightly perplexed grin, captivated and yet somewhat disarmed by her directness.

‘Are you settled?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely, I’m no procrastinator. Would you like to come in for a coffee, or . . .’

He’d have loved to, but it wasn’t appropriate under these circumstances and not with present company in tow. He could feel Mrs Becker rocking on her heels, ready to barge in and snoop around the place. ‘Another time, perhaps?’

Sophie nodded and he hoped she had picked up that he was doing her a favour.

‘Well, hope to see you soon,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’ll pass in the corridor, and don’t hesitate if you ever need sugar. Just bang hard on the floor with a broom or something and I’ll come running.’

It was a lame comeback to her kind invitation, the one he was already regretting turning down, but the wryness in her expression told him she appreciated his discretion.

She smiled. ‘Use the lift, then you’ll be sure to see
me, although there’s not much room for more than me and my chair. You’ll all hate me.’

‘He runs up the stairs like a child,’ Mrs Becker said, poking a finger towards Jack. ‘Me, I walk the one flight. Can’t wait for the wretched lift.’

‘I promise to use the lift if it means we can meet,’ Jack said.

Blimey, I sound desperate
, he thought instantly. It was true he hadn’t really connected with a woman in a long time. Oh, he’d dated often enough — too much, in fact — but hadn’t enjoyed any woman’s company enough over the course of an evening to want to see her again. But here was Sophie, face shiny and clear of make-up, daggy tracksuit, hair tied up messily, sitting in a wheelchair and talking to them from an awkward position, and in less than a minute or two he’d decided he seriously wanted to meet her again.

‘I’ll hold you to that. Nice seeing you — I’m very glad to know who my neighbours are,’ she said to Mrs Becker and gave him a final glance.

Jack wanted to watch that smile blaze all night, but instead he turned and guided Mrs Becker away.

‘Now there’s someone who eats her parsley,’ Mrs Becker muttered as the door of the lift closed on herself and Jack.

He didn’t know whether to be confused or amused. He opted for poor hearing. ‘Pardon me?’

‘The teeth — beautiful, no? Lots of calcium. Good skin.’

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Becker, I’m glad we solved the problem,’ he said, grateful that his floor arrived swiftly. ‘My best to Mr Becker too.’

‘Ja, thank you.’

Jack returned to his apartment, took the phone off the hook and turned his mobile on to silent, then felt guilty and returned it to outdoors mode. He poured himself a slug of the riesling that was no longer quite as chilled, banished all thoughts of the case and instead focused his mind on Sophie Fenton and how he might contrive to meet her again.

3

They’d always been early risers, but now they were nearly sixty both of them seemed to need even less sleep. They were usually wide awake by four and got up at first bird’s peep, around five. Clare sighed as she felt the warmth of her husband leave the bed to follow his usual ritual of ablutions before heading downstairs for the first cuppa of the day.

She often wondered what their hurry was these days. There was nothing to rush downstairs for since Garvan had retired a year or so ago. His health had forced him to leave work much earlier than he should, but he’d been given a great send-off. Everyone loved Garvan and the company was sad to see one of its most loyal employees leave. She was thrilled though. Unlike many women, who found their husbands got underfoot once they retired, Clare was happy to have more time to enjoy their son and stay busy together. Her parents had left them pretty well set up: they weren’t wealthy but they were hardly struggling. Life in retirement was good.

‘What time is it?’ she mumbled, finally finding the courage to brave the cold, unwrap the quilt from
around her legs and move to the bathroom where her husband was just finishing shaving.

She’d always wanted an ensuite bathroom, but it hadn’t worked out that way, what with Peter’s education, giving him the money for his first flat, and then helping him to buy that silly vintage car he loved so much. Perhaps now they could make some improvements — now they had the time and some savings to play with. Clare sighed with quiet pleasure. Peter was well set up and everything they’d worked so hard to provide for him was paying off. She even sensed an engagement in the air and couldn’t imagine she would be any happier once it was made formal.

‘It’s nearing six, love,’ Garvan answered. ‘You don’t have to be up, though. Stay in bed, I’ll bring you a tea.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I might as well get going. I want to start working on the cake.’

‘Is that the one for the McInerneys?’

‘Yes. They’ve ordered a fourth tier now, so I have to adjust all my weights and measurements because the bottom slab of the cake will have to be bigger to hold it all.’

‘Blimey, how many are coming to their reception?’

She shrugged. Weddings were such an industry these days and the caterers really ripped off the bridal couple — or their parents, more to the point — especially for the cake. Clare had been a cake decorator all her working life but her specialty was wedding cakes. She’d retired, of course, but now and then took on the odd job that interested her. This was an Irish couple from County Clare — her parents’ birthplace — and she felt a kinship and need to help the young couple out. ‘I imagine it
must be over two hundred by now if the cake is any indication.’

‘They’re nuts.’

‘You’d better get used to the idea. Peter and Pat will ask at least that many,’ she said.

‘Well, they might ask, but we’ll only be sending out invites for a hundred guests tops,’ he warned, brandishing his razor.

‘Oh, go on with you and your silly threats. No one takes any notice of you, Garvan!’

She could see he knew he was beaten. ‘I’ll get the heaters turned up for you, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a cold one today.’

‘Turn the news on as well,’ she said, shooing him out of the bathroom.

‘Why?’

‘I want to hear about those murders that were on the radio last night,’ she called through the door. ‘We missed the news on the telly because of your Rotary dinner.’

‘What murders? Down here in Sussex?’

Clare began washing her hands. ‘No. Two men, one from Lincoln, the other from London somewhere, I think. But the police reckon their deaths are similar — they’re saying it could be a serial killer,’ she finished as she opened the door.

‘This is England, love, not America,’ he said, his tone suggesting she must have misheard the report. He kissed the top of her head. ‘Hurry up, tea’s on its way.’

‘I’m just telling you what the news said,’ she called to his back as he went downstairs.

Her husband reached the hallway and looked up at her. ‘Why are you interested in them anyway?’

‘Because who’s to say the next one won’t be from Brighton, that’s why. Hurry up with that tea — I’m going to pull on something warm.’

‘Okay, okay. I’m on my way.’

Clare arrived in the sitting room just after the BBC presenter had repeated the unsettling news that the bodies of two men had been discovered in separate locations in Lincoln and North London several weeks apart.

‘Both males were brutally murdered and similarities at the crime scenes indicate that the same killer may be responsible for both deaths. There is no indication at this stage that the murders were the result of robberies as personal items were untouched. A full investigation is now under way and a special incident team has been established. Police are following up several leads,’ the announcer said ‘and have revealed the victims as forty-four-year-old Michael Sheriff of Louth in Lincolnshire and forty-five-year-old Clive Farrow of Hackney Marshes. Both men were —’

‘There you are,’ Clare said over the presenter’s words. ‘Believe me now?’

‘Sssh!’ Garvan hissed, surprising her.

She rounded on him, noticed his gaze intense on the screen, his body leaning forward in anticipation as the BBC ran the footage from the night before showing a grey-haired senior police officer speaking about the murderer they were now hunting.

‘We would like to interview anyone who may have come into contact with the men since November last year or who may have any information that might assist with our inquiries and establish the victims’ movements in the past week,’ Superintendent Sharpe
said from the podium. ‘If anyone has been in the areas concerned and has seen or heard something that they think may be relevant to the inquiry — no matter how insignificant — please contact us on the numbers on the screen now. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

‘Garv—’ Her husband held his hand up to quieten her as Sharpe accepted questions from the reporters. It took all of Clare’s composure not to yell at him.

‘Do we know what he looks like?’ a reporter asked.

Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, we have no news of sightings as yet.’

‘What about a profile? Have you had one done for him yet?’ another asked.

Sharpe’s expression did not change. ‘We’re working with only very limited information at this stage but we’ll be using every tool at our disposal. At this point, all we can say is that the killer is mobile and it’s highly unlikely that we are dealing with a mindless thug or opportunist.’

‘Has he left any clues? Any notes? Taken any trophies?’ a blonde reporter asked, no doubt hoping for ghoulish details.

Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘There are no notes left behind, no trophies, as you put it, taken from either scene. But evidence at the two sites is being scrutinised by our team. Which brings me to Detective Chief Inspector Jack Hawksworth,’ he turned to gesture to a man standing just behind him, ‘who is heading up this major investigation at Scotland Yard.’

‘Garvan, the tea,’ Clare urged, annoyed by her husband’s intense interest in something he had mocked her about only moments earlier.

‘Just a minute,’ he said crossly, his gaze transfixed by the screen as the cameras zoomed in to focus on a tall, dark-haired man.

As much to irritate Garvan as to win his attention, she said, ‘Well, that Jack Hawksworth can leave his slippers under my bed any time.’

‘Good-looking bastard, isn’t he?’ her husband growled, shocking her with his language. ‘And arrogant too, to be wearing that ridiculous candy-striped shirt.’

Then he muttered under his breath,
So you’re the one to look out for.

4

It was the following day that Jack saw Sophie Fenton again. She was entering the lift as he was exiting it on the ground floor.

‘Whoops!’ he said, nearly walking straight into her chair.

‘In a hurry, Mr Hawksworth?’ she asked, her tone filled with good humour. ‘I thought you preferred the stairs.’

‘But you told me to use the lift! And call me Jack, please.’

‘I warned you I’d frustrate you within a very short time,’ she said, pointing to her chair.

‘Not at all. I’m glad to see you. I kept meaning to bring around a cup of sugar or something.’

She grinned. ‘Flowers would be nicer,’ she said, wheeling herself into the lift as he held the door open.

He nodded. ‘That can be arranged.’

‘I’m only joking. My offer for a coffee stands, though. Come and join me sometime.’ She shrugged as she spun the wheels to face him. ‘Come now, if you like.’

Jack gave her a pained look. ‘At the risk of giving you a complex, I have to be somewhere and I’m running late.’

‘Another time then,’ Sophie said, reaching for the button. ‘But three strikes and you’re out, Jack.’

‘Next time you invite me, I promise we’ll have that cuppa.’

‘I’ll hold you to that promise,’ she said and he felt a surge of pleasure as her bright smile broke across her mouth. If the doors weren’t closing he might have done something ridiculously impulsive. Mercifully they groaned shut and, with a protesting squeak and rumble, the lift eased Sophie Fenton away from him.

Later, at Wellington House, a short walk from the Yard, he was still thinking about Sophie. He pushed her out of his mind and regarded the people around him — the team he had assembled. Jack was confident that these were the men and women who would help him fulfil the Super’s plea.

‘Alright, everyone. We all know each other, I think?’ Heads nodded. ‘Good, because we need to move fast. Today’s meeting here at Welly House is for expediency, but rest assured we’ve been given our own operation rooms on the twelfth floor of the Tower Block. For any of you new to the warren that makes up New Scotland Yard, just make for the library and you’ll find your new home next door.’

Bill Marsh gave a low whistle. ‘Bit posher than Victoria Block, eh, Jack?’

Jack winked at the older man. ‘I do my best for us, Swamp.’ He looked back at the main group. ‘Now, we’ll be moving over to our new premises from this evening, when I’m assuming all our designated phone
numbers and home page on the intranet will be up, so grab one of these photocopied maps if you’re unsure.’

He looked at PC Patel and PC McGloughlan. ‘If you’re first-timers here, then expect to get lost because the lifts are a bastard to navigate. Incidentally, apart from the amazing views I can promise from Operation Danube, the library is one of the best spots for Yard gossip.’

Everyone laughed except Sarah Jones, the detective fresh out of Hendon, who nodded rather seriously. Jack made a mental note that he would have to put the young DS at her ease over the next few days.

He got down to business. ‘You’ve all been given the file notes, so you know what we’re dealing with.’

‘Are we treating this officially as a serial killing?’

It was the obvious question that perhaps most didn’t want to ask, but Detective Inspector Kate Carter was never afraid to ask the difficult questions. It was one of the reasons that Jack liked and trusted her. He’d worked with her twice before, once when she too was just a few years out of Hendon, and again five years later, and she’d impressed him both times. Kate was a terrier who couldn’t let anything go once she’d latched onto it as a potential clue. She was also an instinctive detective, who, like him, tended not to follow the rule book so much as trust her gut. She’d been his first choice when pulling together the team, especially now that she’d made DI.

Cam Brodie, her counterpart and all too familiar colleague, grunted. ‘What else would you call it, Kate, two in a row?’

‘Just checking the official line on it, Cam.’

‘Yes,’ Hawksworth said, over their sarcastic glances, ‘we’re treating the murders as a serial killing.’

‘Thank you,’ Kate said, but might as well have added, ‘Touché’.

‘Okay, I’m going to hand you over briefly to John Tandy from the Forensic Science Service,’ Jack went on. ‘He’s had only the briefest of chances so far to look over all the crime notes and come up with something we can work with. John?’

People shifted on the hard wooden chairs in an attempt to find slightly more comfortable positions as a man in his late fifties with thick dark hair shot through with silver took the floor.

‘This is a very loose picture, folks,’ he began. ‘We’ll improve it in coming weeks.’

‘When we get more bodies, you mean?’ Bill Marsh called out.

‘Come on, Bill,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Poor taste, eh?’

Bill Marsh — known as Swamp, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit — had ten years on Hawksworth, but had never been material for a DCI, even though he’d dreamed of running his own unit. To Bill’s credit, he’d never held it against the young lion roaring up the ladder, nor had he ever voiced what everyone presumably believed: Martin Sharpe had made that ladder a little easier for Hawksworth to climb.

Tandy cleared his throat and continued. ‘Alright, so far we have a left-handed killer. This is a cold personality — the actual dispatch of both victims was calm, calculated and handled with minimum fuss. Neither killing was done in a state of uncontrollable anger. If rage was present, I believe the killer had his emotions in check.

‘Michael Sheriff was drugged and taken to a quiet
place, where, presumably, he was quickly dealt with. The same goes for Clive Farrow in Hackney.’

‘Why do you describe the killer as cold, John?’ Kate asked.

‘No passion,’ Tandy replied, pointing to the images blown up and pinned on the board behind him. ‘No need for a lot of blood, and he didn’t make the victims suffer as much as he could have. He drugged them first.’

‘That could have been to make them compliant, though?’ Brodie’s Scottish brogue cut in.

‘That’s probably true. But according to Don Larkin in pathology, the killer waited until the tranquilliser had taken full effect — in both instances, the heart had stopped — before going to work with the knife. He could just as easily have waited for the victims to be drowsy, incapable of a struggle, and then really made them suffer. But apparently he didn’t.’

‘What do we surmise from this?’ Jack asked, mainly for the benefit of the younger members on the team, who looked slightly overawed to be working on this case at Scotland Yard.

‘At this point, only that our killer doesn’t fit the usual profile of a psychopath.’ Tandy drew inverted commas in the air with his fingers as he said the last word. ‘In serial killings there’s usually a level of enjoyment, certainly involvement —’ He made the inverted commas gesture again and Jack could see that it irritated Kate. He smiled to himself. ‘— but in these cases both men were dispatched quickly, efficiently. So this wasn’t about revelling in the act of killing as such.

The killer did not choose to prolong their death, and clearly had no interest in them suffering, perhaps
beyond the original shock of realising they were captives, blah blah.’

The ‘blah blah’ clearly annoyed Kate. ‘So, John,’ she interrupted, shaking her head slightly with frustration, ‘why is he killing if there’s no pleasure to be gained?’

‘Oh, there’s pleasure alright, Detective . . .’

‘DI Carter. Kate.’

‘Kate, thank you. Oh yes, the killer is certainly gaining satisfaction, but not from the suffering, the blood, or the act of killing even. He doesn’t even take a trophy. Instead, he neatly leaves what is clearly his prize in the dead men’s hands.’

‘So what does it all mean?’ Kate asked impatiently.

Tandy closed his eyes, kept them shut as he spoke. ‘It’s a means to an end,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘He just wants these guys dead?’ Bill finished.

‘Correct,’ Tandy said, and blinked slowly. ‘The reward is the end of Sheriff's and Farrow’s life.’

‘Revenge?’ Hawksworth offered.

‘Quite possibly,’ Tandy said, nodding. ‘It’s certainly the scenario I’m postulating.’

‘What else, John?’ Jack encouraged.

‘Well, so far so good — let’s say we have a couple of revenge killings. It doesn’t explain the oddity of removing the lips and genitals. That does smack of the psychopath. But again I tread here with caution, because it was done calmly, neatly and having already deliberately minimised suffering to the victims.’

‘Age?’ Brodie asked.

‘I’d say our killer is late thirties, perhaps early forties.’

‘Why?’ Kate asked.

The profiler raised his chin, stared at the ceiling for a
few moments. Jack liked that Tandy was taking Kate’s question seriously and not just giving her a rote answer. It was a good question, and it was always with some wonderment that Jack listened to the answers these experts came up with. Despite his irritating mannerisms at times, John Tandy was one of the best in the business. The Met used him frequently and, although profiling was hardly an accurate science, Tandy had reliable instincts.

‘Well, this is someone, I believe, who has thought through their kill very precisely,’ he said. ‘You’re dealing with someone who is highly intelligent, who has the ability to remain clear-thinking and utterly in control of their emotions throughout the event. Age and the journey of life teaches you patience, even if you’re a naturally impatient person. I just don’t think a much younger person would have remained so . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘. . . committed,’ he finally said. ‘It takes enormous control to do all that was done and not feel compelled to leave some sort of note behind, or clues to his identity and so on. And if this is revenge, I believe a younger murderer would have wanted his victims to suffer. In my opinion, only an older person would be so single-minded as to never lose sight of what he wants — death for these two men. There was no need to draw out the events leading up to it, and to offer them both an escape from the agony of what was occurring is odd. I really believe this is an older person because everything was a means to an end. No showing off, all clinically done and meticulously planned, it seems.’

Brodie began to speak but Tandy continued, apologising with a nod for cutting across the detective.
‘The care taken to immobilise the victims points to maturity, as does the swift kill — although I think it could have been done faster, neater, considering the murderer had them so helpless.’

Kate frowned. ‘Can you clarify that notion, please, John?’

He shrugged. ‘Just a feeling. It’s another reason why I sense this is about payback. The victims were drugged, presumably unconscious. The killer is showing all the signs of not needing them to suffer past the point of their obvious horror at being taken captive and by whom, and, I imagine, realising that they were going to die. At this stage, he could have just put a plastic bag over their heads to ensure death — a much cleaner, easier way to kill. All of this would follow the pattern he’s set of the manner of death not being important. But he stabs them, risks blood spurting everywhere. Why?’

He let the question hang.

Bill piped up. ‘That’s when he got angry perhaps?’

‘Unlikely,’ Tandy said. ‘At this stage of events, his care suggests he has all of his emotions thoroughly under control. It’s the early stages — the adrenaline rush of stalking and then successfully capturing and immobolising his prey — that are more likely the time when, if he was going to allow his anger to play a part, it would have occurred. He would have stabbed them at the beginning if he was prone to anger over whatever it is that has forced him to do this.’

‘Time constraints?’ Brodie offered, pulling a sheepish face to indicate he knew it was a lame guess. His shrug begged his colleagues to give him a break.

Jack was pleased to note that Tandy showed no impatience with the questions and answered each with
equally measured care. All notions, worthy or lame, were helpful for the younger members to listen to and learn from.

‘No, it can’t be a time issue because the killer only now goes to work on his victims. Genitals to emasculate, lips to remove, the scene to be cleared of any props and evidence. He’s being thorough, remember.’

‘It’s something that does give him pleasure then,’ Kate offered. ‘Or at least satisfaction perhaps.’

Tandy smiled. ‘That’s what I think. Whatever these two men have in common, I think the stabbing put to right something in their killer’s mind.’

‘The revenge?’ Jack asked.

‘Yes, I believe the stabbing is integral to that revenge. Something these men have done in the past perhaps has involved a stabbing, either being part of it or witnessing it, and the killer has taken it personally. Or perhaps it happened to the killer — that I can’t tell you. But the stabbing is definitely at odds with the rest of our killer’s MO. It’s unnecessary, because the victims are most likely already dead, and as I said before, if he wanted to make sure, a plastic bag is much simpler and cleaner. I might add, both stab wounds were in an almost identical spot on the victims’ bodies — it has significance.’

Jack let this sink in before adding, ‘Even though the trophies seem such a vicious act?’

‘That depends on whether these are trophies,’ Tandy said. ‘I don’t think so, to be honest.’ He realised his listeners were staring at him in bafflement. ‘What I mean is, our killer didn’t take anything away from the scene. A genuine trophy from a kill would be kept, treasured. Instead, he left them behind, in the victim’s hands, which may also have some significance.

‘I’d also pose the idea that the lips and genitals, together with the stabbing and even the quirkiness of the blue paint, are the glue that binds these people. They are meaningful only to the killer and his victims. I don’t believe that any of the knifework or the paint is a message to the police or the public at large. I’d suggest it’s more likely a private message to the people he’s taking revenge on, and I feel all three ways in which the blade was used are connected. That is, they were all meaningful to the act of payback.’ He looked around. ‘That’s all I have.’