Follow the Leader (19 page)

‘Can you check with CCTV? And the back of nearby businesses too.’

‘Already on it, boss,’ Sam replied.

The door opened and Trevor came into the room. ‘Carry on,’ he said to Nick, taking a seat at the back of the room.

‘The yellow letter N was found nearby in a plastic sandwich bag. A label on it said “Police.” It means the owner of the car who found it under his wiper blade now knows we have a letter. It also means that if he talks, the public will know that EVE plus N is EVEN.’

Conversation erupted around the room. Nick held up a hand for silence.

‘Do you think he’s pissed off that we’ve kept the letters out of the press?’ questioned Perry.

‘It’s possible.’ Nick pointed to the whiteboard. ‘So far with
Foster
, we have no connection to the schools and no connection to the other victims. I want to know why him and I want to know why a fire. Anything else on Frank Dwyer?’

Allie updated everyone on her conversations with Colleen Hulton and Danny Peterson, and Perry talked through his interview with Charlie Lewis, whose alibi for all three murders was watertight, although Perry had never believed Lewis had anything to do with the deaths.

‘There’re also tons of indecent images of young boys on Dwyer’s home computer,’ Allie added. ‘Most are under thirteen at a guess. There’s obviously some link there that we’re trying to work in, to tie in with the witness statements from yesterday.’

Nick wound the briefing up. ‘I want everyone going over every tiny detail of evidence again – every statement, everything. Check every word. Go over every phone call. Step up the door-to-doors. Make sure
every
lead is followed up. Someone knows who he is.’ His eyes flicked around the room. ‘We need to find out what the hell he’s getting even for.’

As he joined the DCI, Allie sat back at her desk with sagging shoulders. All they needed was one lousy, tiny, teeny break. Because the other alternative was too horrible to contemplate. They would be too late to save the next victim, likely to be dead by tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Two

At eleven o’clock, Rhian and her friend, Laila, were on the train back to Stoke-on-Trent from Manchester. Several bags of shopping were shoved in the racks above them, every single one belonging to Rhian. The night away had been as successful as the shoppin
g t
rip and they’d headed for a club after hitting Deansgate Locks. A takeaway afterwards and they had arrived back at their hotel just after two that morning. Now paying for it with a massive hangover, Rhian rested her head on the window of the train, dying to get home for a proper sleep.

‘I can’t believe you bought three pairs of shoes,’ said Laila. She pulled down the table from the back of the seat in front of her and rested her head on it.

‘I can’t believe I
only
bought three pairs of shoes,’ stated Rhian. ‘There were so many in the sale.’

‘You’re such a lucky cow.’

Rhian smirked. ‘I know. Joe might be old but he’s loaded.’

‘Money’s not everything, though, is it?’

‘It is when I can buy three pairs of shoes.’

‘I wish I could afford one pair!’

Rhian knew that her friend wasn’t jealous but simply envious. Laila had a bar job in the city centre. She often moaned about how she hated it with a passion and was trying to find something else. But with a child to look after during the day, and the baby’s father gone AWOL, it didn’t leave Laila with much choice. Luckily, her mother looked after the baby when she was at work.

Laila sat back up again, pushing her long hair back behind her ears. ‘I can’t wait to see Kyle.’

‘You’ve only been away from him for one night.’

‘I know, but . . . you won’t understand until you have kids of your own.’

Rhian looked at her oddly. ‘I don’t want to have kids.’

‘What – like, never?’ Laila sounded stunned.

‘No, never.’

‘You’ll change your mind.’

‘Erm – no I won’t.’ Rhian dismissed the image of the baby that had melted her heart in the car that she had seen the other day.

‘I can’t imagine life without Kyle now.’ Laila sighed.

Rhian huffed. ‘Last night you were telling me how much he tied you down!’

‘Babies tie everyone down. And I was drunk.’

‘You’re fortunate your mum is there to look after him, like she did last night. You wouldn’t be able to go anywhere.’

‘Well, like I said, not everyone is as lucky as you.’ Laila crossed her legs and turned away.

Rhian shook her head and sighed. ‘Don’t go all moody on me now after I’ve just paid for your hotel room.’

‘
You
didn’t pay. Joe did.’

‘It’s the same thing.’

‘No, it isn’t. And just because
you
have a sugar daddy doesn’t mean we all want one. Besides, he’s only with you because you look like Suzi Porter.’

Rhian turned towards her quickly. ‘Excuse
m
e?’

The train pulled in at Stockport station. Laila wouldn’t look at Rhian so she poked her in the arm.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Laila shrugged. ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything.’

‘No, go on tell me. I want to know.’

But Laila wouldn’t.

Rhian turned away, watching fields disappearing as the train started up again. She thought back to what that sergeant had said. Joe wasn’t bothered by his ex-wife’s death, not in the slightest. But then the doubt crept in as she thought about all the late nights over the past few weeks.

‘What is it with everyone lately?’ she said at last. ‘Ever since Suzi was murdered, all anyone wants to do is put doubt in my mind about her and Joe. First, I had the police on to me and now you.’

‘I haven’t – ’

‘Is that what everyone thinks?’ Rhian interrupted. ‘That he’s with me because I look like her?’

Laila shrugged again. ‘Aren’t you ever suspicious, though?’

‘Of what?’

‘He’s so much older than you.’

‘And – your point?’

‘Most men say they’d like a younger woman but most don’t ac
t on it.’

‘You’re talking about a trophy girlfriend, aren’t you?’ Rhian snapped.

‘Well, you’ve obviously thought of that too!’

‘No, I happen to know that he loves me for who
I
am and that’s enough for me.’

‘Good.’

‘Fine!’ Rhian was determined to have the last word but Laila wouldn’t let it drop now.

‘If you’re that certain, you ought to check around the house to see if he has anything of hers. If he has, he’s still in love with her. Then you have your answer.’

‘Do you think he is?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t see him that often.’

Rhian cast her mind back. Had Joe seemed upset because Suzi wasn’t there any more or because she’d led the police to the house and he was worried they would find something they shouldn’t? Joe was a selfish bastard at times – just like her. She wouldn’t put anything past him.

‘What would I look for?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

A woman with two young children came to sit in the seats opposite. The toddler dropped his teddy and Laila leaned forward to retrieve it. She gave it back to him with a smile.

‘Aw, he’s gorgeous,’ she said to his mum. ‘How old is he?’

Rhian rolled her eyes and turned to look out of the window as the train set off again. But what Laila had said still played on her mind all the way home, even more so as she went into the house with her shopping bags.

As she stood alone in the silent hallway, another layer of doubt grew in her mind.

Allie was on her way to the interview rooms downstairs again.
Earlier
, they’d received word from the pathologist. There was nothing new on Frank Dwyer’s body, only the same unidentified DNA of their killer. She sighed dramatically. He was well prepared, this one.

Up ahead on a row of seats, a man sat upright, hands in his lap. She drew level, noticing the tense frown as he concentrated on a poster ahead of him. Domestic Abuse: a single red rose dripping with blood.

‘Mr Foster, I’m Detective Sergeant Shenton. Thank you for coming in early.’ Allie opened a door to the right of him and pointed to the table. They sat down opposite each other.

‘I’m so sorry about your father,’ she began.

‘I’m not.’ Nigel Foster crossed his arms and unfolded them. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to come across as hostile.’

Allie gave a faint smile of acknowledgement. ‘Didn’t you get on with him?’

‘He was not a nice man. Well, to me he wasn’t.’

‘Is that why you moved from the area?’

‘Partly. I was also offered a brilliant opportunity working at Portsmouth University.’

‘Do you have family, Mr Foster?’

‘Yes, two boys and a girl. Eldest is eleven, middle one seven and the youngest three.’

‘And do you visit your parents often?’

‘I haven’t seen them in years.’

‘Oh?’ Allie knew this already after speaking to Mrs Foster, so it was good to get it confirmed. ‘Too busy with the job?’

Nigel sat forward in his chair, struggling to hold back tears. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

‘I’m not sure how much you know about my father, but he . . . he did things to me that I will never forget. That’s why I won’t allow my children to visit their grandparents.’

‘Can you be a bit more specific?’ She raised a hand as he began to protest. ‘I don’t want a lot of details. Just the basics will do.’

He looked away for a moment then back at her. ‘My father abused me sexually from the age of nine until I was fourteen.’ He gasped as if struggling for air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to block it out for so many years that even thinking about it brings back the memory as vividly as if it were yesterday. He raped me repeatedly. I was powerless to stop him. He said the usual crap – made me believe that it was what I wanted. That I asked for it, that no one would believe me if I did say anything. So I didn’t.’ He looked up then, with dark, angry eyes. ‘I never said anything, just took it until it stopped when I was fourteen.’

‘It just stopped?’

‘Yes. I obviously became too old.’

‘Is that what you think?’

He nodded. ‘I know so. I found photos. Pictures of boys, young boys, a lot younger than me.’

‘Printed or online?’

‘They were mostly printed back then. I bet he has tons online now, though.’

His comment made Allie look up from taking notes. ‘Did you know any of the boys?’

‘No.’

Allie glanced at the clock. She needed to finish this so they could go into the press conference. ‘Thanks for your time. I’ll show you through to the room we’re using.’

‘I hate myself for not doing anything about it.’ Nigel’s voice broke and he began to cry.

‘You were a child, you have to remember that.’ Allie wanted to reach out to him but wasn’t sure if she would offend him. She quickly put her hands under the table. ‘A child taken advantage of by his own father. There is no way you were to blame.’

‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’ Nigel sniffed. ‘Seeing him six feet under will, though.’

Allie said no more while she waited for him to gain his composure. What could she say? She couldn’t alleviate how he was
feeling
. Another child let down by another parent in this ideal world they all strived to create.

Eventually, he stood up. ‘I’m not sure if that helps in any way but I hope that you’re clearer about the man who was murdered.’

‘Thank you for your honesty. That can’t have been easy to share.’

‘My – my wife doesn’t know any of this. That’s why I came to see you here at the station.’ His eyes were pleading. ‘I do hope it can stay that way.’

‘I will do my very best, but I can’t promise that, I’m sorry. But now might be the time to tell your wife. I can give you some
numbers
– people who can help.’

As she made her way back upstairs to the incident room, Allie wondered if the fact that Danny Peterson was hanging around with Frank Dwyer and the fact that Malcolm Foster had abused his son might be connected. Had their killer been abused as a child?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Allie tried to shut out thoughts of her sister as she got to work sifting through information that afternoon. There were so many things to look at, especially since the press conference had been broadcast. Sylvia Foster had made an appeal and Nigel had been
present
too. It had been uncomfortable to watch from the back of the room as Trevor worked his way through endless questions thrown at him during this one. Four victims in eight days, no matter how hard they worked behind the scenes, smacked of incompetence to the general public who just wanted the killer caught. It would have smacked of incompetence to her, too, if she hadn’t known better.

As they left the room, Allie couldn’t help but think back to how Nigel had reacted to his mother. Even though Sylvia Foster had cried through most of the conference, there had been no show of emotion towards her from Nigel. He hadn’t held onto her hand, touched her arm, or even sat close to her. Instead, he’d refused to look up at the camera through most of the interview until it had been time for him to read his statement. At the last minute he had refused, passing it along to Trevor to read out for him. It was sad considering the circumstances and, even though Allie couldn’t begin to understand what he’d been through, she could understand why Nigel wouldn’t support his mother. She clearly knew more than she was letting on.

Upstairs again, Sam beckoned her over before she sat down at her desk. ‘There’s a couple of things I want you to see on CCTV. You got a minute?’

Allie wheeled her chair over and sat down next to Sam.

‘There’s Malcolm Foster going into Winton Insurance
Brokers
.’ She pointed to a figure on the screen and they watched as he walked into the square and went into the building.

‘And,’ Sam pointed out a blurry figure running across the screen in front of them, ‘there’s our guy from the fire thirty-two minutes later.’

Allie leaned closer. ‘Is that all we have?’

‘Yep.’ Sam sighed. ‘Really informative, isn’t it? This is from the cameras that pan round. I’ve tried the shop across the road but theirs are for show. The one next to that only catches the
pavement
in front and the bloke didn’t run past that way. Want me to
continue
?’

‘Yes, for a while. See if you can see anyone nearby on anythin
g else.’

‘Okay. I also have this. It might be something and nothing but there are a few cars that keep appearing. I’ve seen them several times now. Might be worth checking out.’ Sam pressed a few
buttons
on the keyboard and then pointed. ‘This one here. A dark blue Fiesta, old, Y reg. It was seen coming out of the street next to Red Street on the night that Suzi Porter was killed. And then again,’ she pressed a few more buttons, ‘here, just off Market Street on Sunday evening.’

‘After the fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any others?’

‘Well, there’s a small white van and a blue Honda Civic. Both are in the vicinity of two of the murders but not the others, just the same as the Fiesta. I need to rule out work and home addresses. And talking of addresses, we’ve found Malcolm Foster’s email address amongst emails sent from Frank Dwyer’s PC.’

‘Photos attached?’ Allie hazarded a guess.

‘Yep.’

‘Shit.’

‘Indeed.’ Sam paused. ‘Are you okay, Allie? You don’t look so good.’

Allie saw concern in Sam’s eyes and her own filled with tears. ‘It’s Karen,’ she said. ‘She’s not doing so well.’

Sam rested a hand on Allie’s forearm. ‘Anything I can do? Maybe look at some paperwork while you go off and see her?’

‘I went first thing this morning – well, I was summoned for first thing this morning. That’s why I was rushing in for the briefing. Her doctor rang last night just before I went home. He’s going to run some tests, says he won’t know much until then. But it’s not . . . it’s not looking good. She’s barely communicating with me; she’s hardly made a murmur for the last few weeks. I’ve known but I’ve not wanted to admit it to myself.’ Allie sniffed and wiped at a rogue tear as an officer walked past her desk. ‘I think I’m losing her, Sam,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, Allie, I’m so sorry.’

Allie squeezed her eyes shut to stop more tears.

‘Have they given any indication of –?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’ Allie shook her head. ‘Although I know I should.’

‘Why don’t you go and spend some time with her?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can.’ Sam nodded. ‘We can cover for a few hours. I’ll keep you informed by phone. We can –’

‘No, I mean I can’t bear to think about it at the moment. I know it sounds callous but I need to keep busy. Once I’ve gone home tonight and seen Mark and had a good cry, then I can go and see her, try to accept things. And I’m on the end of the phone if I’m needed.’ Allie quickly wiped away another tear that had dripped down her cheek. ‘Right, what’s next?’

Chloe Winters shivered as she stood waiting at the bus stop on the outskirts of Hanley. It was nearing midnight; there was hardly any chance of a bus now but she didn’t have enough money for a taxi, so she’d have to wait and see and then start walking. All her friends had gone ages ago, when they knew she’d hooked up with Daryl. She’d been looking forward to seeing him so much – what better than a night out laughing with the girls and then home with him afterwards to catch some good loving? Or some in the morning, once they were both sober.

Behind her, bushes that marked the boundary of Central
Forest
Park shivered in the wind, causing her to shiver too. No bus in sight, she reached inside her bag and located her purse, searching through it again in the hope of finding some money that she’d missed from before. But there was nothing. Even though there were a few cars about, it seemed deathly quiet. She hugged herself to keep warm.

She checked her phone. Nothing from Daryl since she’d stormed off fifteen minutes ago. It was all his fault. If she hadn’t argued with him in Chicago Rock, then she wouldn’t be waiting here for a bus that she’d probably missed. What time were the last buses, anyway? She looked down the road again, as if one was magically going to appear.

She combed her hair from her face with her hand, the wind whipping it into her eyes as a taxi raced past, passengers in the back going home to warmth and sleep. She shivered again, stamping her feet to keep her toes from numbing. Only last month they’d had a few days of snow and here she was now in a dress and flimsy jacket and strappy platform shoes. It wasn’t icy – she’d stay on her feet, but . . . She cursed Daryl. She looked at the time again: five past midnight. She’d wait for another ten minutes and then she’d have to walk.

If Daryl hadn’t been all over that girl he used to go out with – Chloe cast her mind back, Becky something-or-other bitc
h-fa
c
e – s
he wouldn’t have felt the need to argue with him. But he thought he was such a stud. She’d been happily snogging the face off him until she’d needed to pee. When she came back, he was so close to snogging Becky that he hadn’t noticed her standing by his side for over a minute. She’d tapped him on the shoulder, tipped the remainder of her drink down Becky’s top and stormed out. She’d hoped that he’d come after her, looked over her shoulder even as she’d left the building, but he hadn’t. Becky had won, despite her having the last laugh. Her eyes filled with tears.

A few minutes later, she began to walk, her feet hurting with every step. When she heard footsteps behind her, she stopped, turned abruptly, but there was no one there. She laughed to herself.

‘Stop scaring yourself, you daft cow.’

She walked another few yards before she heard footsteps again, closer this time, and faster. Someone grabbed her arm and ran with her.

‘Stop pissing about, Daryl.’ Chloe struggled to keep up with him. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. You can’t be trusted on your own for five minutes.’

On they ran, past Walkers Fruit Shop and down the side alley next to it.

‘I
saw
how you were looking at her! You’re hurting my arm – le
t go!’

He continued to drag her along the path, then across the grass and into the bushes before she had time to say anything else. She pulled a face – he might think it was romantic to act all spontaneous but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

When they were out of sight, he turned her to face him. It was then that she could see it wasn’t Daryl.

‘Who the hell –’

He stopped her with a backhander across her face. She cried out, stumbled in her heels. He pushed her and she fell to the ground. On all fours, she scrambled desperately but he grabbed her ankles and pulled her back. Soil filled her nails as she tried to get a grip, hook into the ground and stay where she was, but he was on her like a flash. He flipped her over onto her back, his hand sliding up her leg. She lost a shoe in her fight to kick him off. Pushing her dress down as he inched it up, she slapped at him as he grabbed her hands.

‘You’re not going to get away from me.’

At last she tried to scream, but it was silenced immediately by a punch to her mouth. He hit her twice more. Dazed, she quietened, feeling her legs go weak as he covered her with his body. He lifted off her slightly as he fumbled with his jeans. She knew she should try to scream again but it was as if she had lost the know-how. All the times she’d read about girls getting attacked and not running away or screaming for help and wondering how they could just lie back and take it. Now, here she was, powerless and frozen with fear. Tears pouring down her face, she tried to close her mind off to what was happening.

Patrick moved through his neighbourhood as quietly as possible. He was taking a risk going through the wooded shortcut and on to Century Street. The alcoholics would be out and in fighting mode if he bumped into any of them. But at this time of night, he could blend in with the darkness, the dreariness of the place.

Coming out into the light of the only lamp in the street that worked, he stepped into the road that would lead him across to Waterloo Road and across to Ranger Street. Ahead, he could hear the sound of a man and woman arguing, their colourful expletives coming through an open window. He pulled down his woollen hat as he ran the last few minutes home, trying to keep the negative thoughts from at bay.

From the onset of the game, Patrick had wondered if he’d be in the right frame of mind to carry everything out. He’d thought that maybe killing Mickey Taylor would be all he was capable of. But one after the other? Would his mind be void of any emotion? Would he be able to kill and kill again? In quick succession, which is what he’d needed to do? And not stop until he had taken down every one of them? He was more than halfway through the game, but would his mind be capable of all of it?

He pushed himself to sprint the last few metres along Ranger Street to his front door. As he put his key in the lock, he glanced around. There was no one to see him, no one looking out of the windows, no one to make up tales about him, not like before. Only five lights on in the whole street, mainly downstairs.

In the shower minutes later, he turned the dial to high and lifted his face up into the spray, the drops stinging his skin in their race to cover him first. If he had been the religious type, he might have thought it was washing away his sins, cleansing him of h
is evils.

But he wasn’t religious. He must just be mad.

No one in their right mind would do what he had done if they weren’t.