Follow the Leader (7 page)

Chapter Ten

Before he left for his late shift, Patrick switched on some music,
hoping
to drown out the sound of next door’s television. He made
coffee
and a toasted sandwich – cheese, thinly sliced tomato. Even so, he found it hard to eat anything, a permanent smile on his face. He had never felt so empowered: happy, content, excited even. Everything was slipping into place.

After so long being pushed around, Patrick was leading the game.
Come along now. Everyone take my hand; pick a number; pick a name. I want him on my team. No, he’s coming on mine.

Dressed in his work clothes, he went into the living room. As he passed the sideboard, he paused at the pile of letters again, this time picking up the framed photograph in front of them. If he was in a good mood, he could look at the black and white image of three people, happy and smiling, and remember them fondly. The three of them racing downstairs on a
Christmas
morning. Playing football with Robert. Helping Louisa to learn her eight times table, teaching her a rhyme to make sure she recalled them all in the right order. Going to the corner shop together and having a twenty-pence mixture, sitting on the grass comparing the colour of tongues after eating Black Jacks.
Waiting
outside the pub for his dad with a packet of crisps and a bottle of orange pop.

More often than not, when he looked at the photo he’d recall nothing but the hurt and the anger that he felt when they’d left. The photo was of his mum, younger brother, Robert, and sister, Louisa. His memory of the two of them was hazy but he thought that
Robert
would have been two years younger than him: his sister, Louisa, maybe five. Time had fogged over the years he’d been on his own with his father, Ray. He didn’t have a clue why his mother had taken them and left
him
behind to be bullied by the man. He’d certainly lost count of the times that their names had been thrown into his face.

Patrick had been nine when they had left. That was the last time he’d seen them. He didn’t even know if they still lived in Stoke-on-Trent or if they had moved to another city altogether. All he could remember was being sent into Hanley to get Ray some belly pork from the meat market and when he’d got home, they had all disappeared. All their clothes had gone too. Worse than that, Patrick had got it in the neck from Ray when he found the note that his mother had left for him.

In the note, his mother had said there was only room to take two children with her so as Patrick was the eldest, she’d left him behind because she knew he could cope. Cope with what? The beatings that she was running away from? All Ray’s anger had transferred to Patrick. As a teenager, he would cower in his bed, having been alone all evening until Ray came home from the pub. Ray always wanted to fight. He’d drag Patrick out of bed, pull him down the stairs and beat him. Often Patrick would be covered in blood and bruises but still Ray wouldn’t stop. He missed a lot of school but if anyone questioned him, Ray told them Patrick was clumsy.

Ray had broken Patrick’s arm one afternoon after he’d had a skinful. He’d come home from the pub and had hurled Patrick across the room so quick and so hard that he hadn’t been able to stay on his feet. His wrist had taken the brunt of the fall. The school nurse had insisted on taking him to the clinic, which had transferred him to the hospital for x-rays. Even Patrick’s crying out in pain hadn’t stopped Ray from having another go at him when he’d been brought home with a plaster cast up to his elbow. Ray had explained that away, too, as Patrick’s clumsy fault for slipping. And then he’d taken another beating because Ray was furious that he’d brought unwanted attention to their home life.

It took a while but, in the end, Patrick hadn’t blamed his mum for leaving. But what he couldn’t understand was why she had taken his brother and sister along but left him behind. He never believed the story that there was only room for two young children where she was going. He knew he would have been an asset to his mother. She would have had to go out to work; he could have looked after Robert and Louisa for her. He was their brother!

What had been so wrong with him that she hadn’t wanted to take him too? Instead, she’d left him in the hands of the bully she had run from. He thought back to the times when he had been woken by her screams as Ray had laid into her. He could still remember the sounds of the slaps, the punches, the screams, the bangs. It was all inside his head. He could never escape from it. And, at nine years old, he’d become the punch bag for his drunk of a father. How could she have done that to him?

In the early years after Ray went to prison, he’d tried to trace them but he hadn’t been able to find any leads. He wondered if they’d changed their names – he couldn’t remember his mother’s
maiden name and there was nothing in the house to tell him.
Eventually
, he’d given up.

But it was as he was doing this that he’d thought about his plan. Social media was taking off, with more and more people using Facebook and Twitter. Patrick joined both and found that it was absurdly easy to befriend people online, easy from timelines to work out what people were up to. It was ridiculous, really, he’d often thought, how much information people shared wi
thout thinking.

In a year or so, he’d built up a file on most of his victims,
followed
them and watched them, making sure he knew their routines off by heart. When he had all of those sorted, he went on to the other people he wanted to take down – came across a few surprises, too, and ended up adding a name to the list, someone that he didn’t know at all.

When everything had been written down, worked out, planned out, he’d only had to continue to keep an eye out for any changes and then wait for the date. And here it was: January 16.

This time he would be the winner.

Through the dark and quiet streets, Allie drove over to Longton, in the south of the city. From Anchor Road, she turned right onto a residential estate. At the far end of Red Street, a house had already been sealed off with tape. She parked as near as she could get and walked to the one she was after.

Allie doubted any of the neighbours would get to sleep that night. Groups of people had congregated on the driveways of the houses either side. It seemed a tidy area, lots of newish cars and neat gardens, the lights from the emergency vehicles illuminating the street, breaking into the dark.

She announced her presence to the officer at the door, pulled on the necessary protective clothing and stepped into the hall of number twenty-two. She followed the voices but, at the doorway to the kitchen, she hesitated for a moment, the sight in front rendering her immobile. Then she took a deep breath and went inside.

A woman was tied to a chair, head slumped onto her chest, blonde hair hanging down covering her face. Allie’s eyes were drawn to multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. It seemed frenzied rather than meticulous. The skirt the victim was wearing was soaked in blood, and a large quantity had settled in a puddle in her lap. The white shirt she had on had been ripped open, buttons pinged off, she assumed. Splatters of blood were
dotted
here and there, no significant pattern. Her feet and legs were bare,
toenails
painted almost the same red as the blood.

The DI was already on scene in the room. So too were Dave Malpass, two more forensic officers and a photographer.

‘The control room said the call had come in via the victim’s
husband, Kelvin Porter.’ Nick broke into her thoughts as he
noticed her hanging back in the doorway. ‘He came home from work to find her like this.’

‘Poor bastard,’ said Dave. ‘It’s going to give him nightmares for a long time.’

Allie moved closer to see what she could of the woman’s face. She didn’t look peaceful, her eyes giving away the horror and the pain she had suffered during the last minutes of her life. It was hard to see the woman like that but Allie knew it had to be this way. Nothing could be touched until evidence was gathered.

‘Do you think she was sexually assaulted before being dragged to the chair and tied to it?’ she asked, looking at the woman’s ripped top.

‘I can’t be certain yet, but from first glance, it’s not looking that way,’ Dave replied.

Allie looked around the room, saw two wine glasses on a small table with numbered yellow markers next to them – exhibits five and six. ‘I didn’t see a forced entry,’ she continued. ‘She knew her attacker?’

‘I reckon so.’

‘So we need to rule out the husband?’

‘Yes, but he was at work. He’s the general manager, Trentham Country Club. We need to check but it seems he was there from seven until ten, and then came straight home. Emergency call was logged at 22.21 which fits in with the drive from Trentham to here.’

Allie stood back and let the crime scene officers do their job.

‘Did she let her attacker in or did they knock on the door? And, just for now assuming it’s a male as her blouse is ripped open, did he force himself into the house the way he might have forced himself into her body? Or was it a random burglary followed by an even more random attack because someone got scared?’ She spoke to no one in particular.

‘So a definite “he,” then?’ questioned Nick.

‘Don’t you think so?’ she queried. ‘If we can rule the husband out, someone, probably male, came deliberately.’

‘Not robbery then?’

‘Possibly,’ Allie nodded. ‘But it’s one thing to rob a house, another entirely to tie up the occupant before brutally killing her. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It doesn’t make sense to me why anyone does this type of thing at all,’ said Dave.

Nick came over to her then. ‘The letter V this time,’ he spoke quietly. ‘It was tucked inside her bra.’

‘Shit.’

‘We need to keep this away from the press for a while. The other thing I need to tell you is that her name is Sandra Seymour but you’ll probably know her as Suzi Porter.’

Allie caught a breath. ‘As in glamour model, Suzi Porter?’

‘The very one.’

‘She went to Reginald High School, at the same time as Mickey Taylor. I think they were in the same year. I remember my
sister
talking about her. She was really jealous when she made the big
ti
me – not so when she realised what she was actuall
y doing.’

‘Reginald High School was your school too, right?’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘So you know both of our victims.’

‘I wouldn’t say I know her. I’ve
heard
of her – most people in Stoke have probably heard of Suzi Porter. You knew of her, didn
’t you?’

Nick nodded. ‘She’s made quite a name for herself.’

‘Perry will know her too, no doubt.’

‘Can you make a visit to the school?’

‘Not possible. It closed in 1995.’

Reginald High School had been one of several over the city with large catchment areas before it had closed. A long time since, and the education landscape of the city was undergoing a massive transformation. There had been objections when the Building Schools for the Future program had been announced. Now, as well as
secondary
schools, there were academies, a pupil referral unit and special schools, each one a key part of the regeneration of the
Potteries.

Allie blew a breath out through her mouth. Two bodies in three days. Two letters, E and V.

‘Why didn’t you tell me her name straightaway?’ she asked
Nick.

‘I wanted you to work the room first. I also needed another perspective . . . wanted you to keep an open mind rather than make assumptions based on what she did for a living.’

‘Why?’

‘You wouldn’t treat this differently if you knew she was a glamour model?’

‘No, I wouldn’t!’

Nick paused. ‘Do you see any other connection between the two of them?’

‘Well, I suppose it could be a long shot but . . . by all accounts, Mickey Taylor was one of the popular boys. One that every girl wanted to date.’

‘Right, and Suzi – Sandra, whatever her name was?’

‘I think I remember Sandra Seymour being one of the most popular girls.’