Midnight Murders (21 page)

‘She passed the psychological test.'

‘A bloody child of two could run rings around our psychologists. The test questions are so damned obvious, they're farcical. Isn't it enough that her boyfriend died last year, without you trying to kill her too?'

‘No one is going to die.' Bill leaned across the table. ‘We've three people inside the ward; Jean, Sarah, and Trevor who's a trained detective… '

‘A sick, physically frail and unfit detective, who was your number-one suspect yesterday,' Peter reminded.

‘We have men everywhere, ready to provide back-up at a split second's notice. In the grounds, in the old hospital, outside the ward.'

‘For how long?'

‘Two weeks,' Bill admitted reluctantly. ‘If nothing happens by then, we have orders to run down the manpower working on this case.'

Peter propped his feet on a metal waste-bin. ‘So if our villain gets frightened off by this activity, all he has to do is go to ground for a fortnight. Afterwards he can go back to burying the remaining complement of patients and staff whenever he feels like it. I've another theory for you. He – whoever he is – could be an undercover agent for the Trust. His mission being to save them a fortune in redundancy pay for the staff, and relocation expenses for the patients. They'll probably pay him a bonus and still be quids in when he buries the last inmate of this nut house. Then all the Trust needs do is warn the re-developer not to dig down deeper than six foot when they build the upmarket housing estate that'll replace this place. And bingo, the new residents on this site will get an added bonus of well fertilised gardens.'

‘You're sick, Peter. Sick and twisted. When this case is over, I'm putting you up for transfer,' Bill threatened.

‘Promises,' Peter glared at Bill. ‘Bloody promises, that's all I ever get.'

* * *

‘One day you're going to argue yourself out of a job,' Dan cautioned Peter after Bill had left the HQ.

Peter struck a match to light his cigar. ‘Ten years of trying, and I still haven't pushed Bill far enough to get near commonsense. Have you phoned forensics about that sub-station?'

Dan shook his head and reached for the telephone. Mulcahy had been right about Peter. He was good, but he was also hell to work with.

‘Your people have searched every inch of this cellar three times this week.' Arnold Massey, head of a maintenance staff that had shrunk from fifteen to two over the past five years, complained.

‘Between you and me, we've had a tip-off,' Peter said. ‘And if we don't act on tip-offs, everyone starts breathing down our necks. Press, politicians, higher ups, Joe public, and all.'

‘I can imagine,' the man agreed, slightly mollified by the confidence.

Dan, who was following Peter with the technician from forensics, wondered why Peter never bothered to soft-soap the brass the way he did the public. A tenth of the patience he'd expended on Arnold would have transformed his relationship with Bill. But he'd discovered that Peter was a Jekyll and Hyde personality, and, as his temporary partner, he was grateful for the times when Jekyll surfaced – like now.

‘This cellar goes on forever,' the forensic expert shifted his heavy case from one hand to the other.

‘Over half a mile from end to end,' Arnold informed him. ‘And two miles of passages in total.' He ducked his head beneath a bridge of grimy central-heating pipes. ‘This is your sub-station.'

They halted in front of a securely locked iron door set in a solid brick wall. ‘By rights I suppose I should have called the electricity people… '

‘There's no need,' Peter tested the door. ‘The fewer people involved, the less the risk of contamination. You do know enough to tell us what's safe or unsafe for us to touch?' he checked.

‘Ay, I know that much. And most of the dangerous stuff is labelled.' Arnold pulled an enormous bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked one of several locks on the door. It took him five minutes to find the keys needed to unfasten the second and third locks. He opened the door, slipped his hand inside and switched on the light. ‘It's all yours.'

The lighting was brighter inside the sub-station than it was in the corridor. Peter and Dan stared at an array of dials, switches, and gleaming black paraphernalia that meant nothing to them.

‘It's all right to go inside,' Arnold assured them. ‘Just be careful with anything that's labelled in red. And don't pull any switches, or you'll black out the wards.'

‘Floor's not dusty,' the technician observed.

‘As I said, your people have been in and out of this place like yo-yos this week,' Arnold reminded.

Peter stepped gingerly inside and looked around. ‘Who else has keys to this place?' he asked Arnold.

‘Electricity people, but they don't have keys to the building so they can't come down here without one of us knowing about it.'

‘One of “us” being maintenance?' Dan asked.

‘Or administration. Mr Waters has master keys in his office.'

‘Including this sub-station?'

‘Of course. He'd need them, wouldn't he, in case of emergency.'

‘I suppose so,' Dan said slowly, beginning to think that all the clues on this case seemed to lead back to Tony Waters.

‘Where do you want to start?' the technician called to Dan, from inside the sub-station.

‘You're the one with experience, wherever you like,' Dan replied.

‘Floor up, or ceiling down? Front to back, or back to front?'

‘How about ceiling down, back to front,' Peter walked to the end wall and looked back.

Nothing larger than a shoe box could have been hidden above ground level, but when they examined the floor, Dan saw distinct possibilities. It was covered with heavy metal plates, each a foot wide and three feet long. It took the combined strength of Peter and the technician to move them and underneath was a gap more than a foot deep.

‘You could hide a corpse in there,' Dan said.

‘A thin one,' Peter agreed. He looked to the forensics expert. ‘What do you think?'

‘I'll get out my kit.'

Dan and Peter removed the rest of the plates, carried them out into the corridor and propped them against the cellar wall, while the technician set to work. He opened bottles, arranged test tubes to hold any specimens he might find, donned rubber gloves, slipped rubber socks over his shoes, and stepped out on to the narrow cement band surrounding the newly opened floor. Crouching on hands and knees he began to check the area, centimetre by centimetre, with his magnifying glass.

‘Cigar?' Collins pulled a packet from the top pocket of his shirt and offered them to Arnold and Dan.

‘Don't mind if I do.' Arnold took one, and held it in his mouth as Peter lit it. ‘Do you think you'll strike lucky?'

‘We can hope,' Dan leaned against the wall.

‘If I were you I'd take a closer look at the therapists,' Arnold suggested.

‘Why?' Peter asked.

‘I'd want to know why that big man – the one who's lost an eye… '

‘Spencer Jordan?' Peter asked.

‘I'd want to know why he's taken to carrying women's clothes around with him.'

‘Are you sure?' Dan glanced into the sub-station to check the technician's progress.

‘Saw him plain as I see you. Sitting in his room at lunchtime, playing with a woman's pink scarf and a blouse. Crying like a baby, he was. Sobbing his heart out.'

Peter looked over at Dan, and Dan nodded. The same thought went through both their minds. They didn't want any more clues. They were both beginning to feel as though they were caught on an endless treadmill leading nowhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY
-ONE

‘Trevor, can I have a word?' Bill asked as the officers who'd attended the briefing filed out of his room in the mobile HQ.

‘I should get back to my ward.'

‘I told Andrew Murphy to look after things until you return.' Bill waited until only he, Dan, Peter and Trevor were left in the room then kicked the door shut. ‘I won't keep you long. We've a long night ahead. But I think we should pool our knowledge in the light of new evidence.'

‘Can we eat while we talk?' Peter went to the door.

‘Make mine fish and chips,' Dan said.

‘Twice,' Bill added.

‘Trevor?' Peter asked.

‘Nothing, thanks. I ate earlier.'

‘Hospital food,' Peter scorned. He opened the door and shouted to the girl manning the reception desk. ‘Phone down to the gate, love, and order four cod and chips from up the road for us, please.'

‘Now can we start?' Bill asked testily.

‘Anytime that suits you,' Peter reached for the tower of plastic cups and poured out four coffees.

‘As I mentioned during the briefing, I've had all the interview reports in.' Bill lifted a pile of blue-jacketed files from the shelf behind him, and dumped them on to the table. ‘What I didn't say, Peter, was that Harry Goldman criticised your interviewing techniques.'

‘You win some, you lose some.' Peter shrugged.

‘Tread carefully in future,' Bill snarled. ‘I'm tired of apologising for you.'

‘So, we here to pool ideas, or what?' Peter asked.

‘Yes,' Bill looked around. Trevor looked exhausted, Peter was being belligerent again – ‘Dan, you start.'

‘As I said in the briefing, Angela Morgan's convinced that Tony Waters is the killer, but forensics went over that sub-station with a toothcomb and found nothing that shouldn't have been there. Not as much as a fibre or a stray hair.'

‘Only traces of mud,' Peter said. ‘Probably carried in on people's shoes. But they're going to sift it, and test it to see if it's surface or subsoil.'

‘If it is subsoil, it could have been carried there by the killer – or anyone who walked through the flowerbeds, so that would prove nothing.' Bill said. ‘Dan, do you think there's anything in Arnold Massey, the maintenance man's story about Spencer Jordan crying over women's pink clothing?'

‘When did he see this?' Trevor asked.

‘He claims every lunch-hour for the past week,' Dan revealed. ‘The storeroom where he eats his sandwiches overlooks Jordan's room.'

Let's look at Spencer as a potential suspect,' Bill sat down. ‘He cracked up. He's odd, he knits – '

‘You're accusing a man of multiple murders, because he knits?' Trevor said incredulously.

Bill went to the flip-chart and flicked the sheets over until he came to a clean page. He wrote
Spencer Jordan
at the top. ‘He's been here long enough to commit all the murders. He's familiar with the place, both as a patient and a member of staff. He probably knows enough to administer drugs, he's intelligent, and he had a breakdown after he saw his wife and three children carved up by a group of maniacs.'

‘He what?' Trevor demanded.

‘Sorry. I must give you the files so you can get up to speed.'

‘I'm ahead of you.' Peter reached for the files stored behind the table, and extracted the one containing the press cuttings he'd brought in. He handed it to Trevor.

‘What about keeping the victims hidden?' Dan asked Bill.

‘He lives in a halfway house just outside the wall,' Peter answered for Bill. ‘And he works in the old building, so he must have a reasonable knowledge of the layout.'

‘But where did he keep them?' Bill demanded short-temperedly.

‘For my money, somewhere in the old hospital. The newer buildings and the wards have too many people around. He'd run a greater risk of discovery there. Besides, there are no nooks and crannies, only straight corridors, square rooms… '

‘Where the killer chose to hide Vanessa, in plain sight,' Bill reminded.

‘Lyn Sullivan said – said – ' Trevor lost the thread of what he was trying to convey as he stared at the photographs and headlines detailing the murder of Spencer Jordan's family. Sickened, he slammed the file shut.

‘Said what?' Dan prompted.

‘Said that if she wanted to hide someone in this place, she'd drug them, wrap a blanket around their shoulders and put them on one of the wards, preferably geriatric.'

‘The lady has got a point,' Peter nodded. ‘Do they hold regular headcounts here?'

‘Not often, judging by the number of people they seem to lose,' Bill commented.

‘We were talking about Spencer Jordan,' Dan reminded. ‘We're all agreed that he has the knowledge of this place, and the means – '

‘Where's his motive?' Trevor asked.

‘He's nuts,' Peter stated.

‘
Was
nuts, and in your opinion so was I,' Trevor reminded acidly.

‘You're one of us so we make allowances for your nuttiness.' Peter saw a pulse throb at Trevor's temple, an indication that Trevor was about to lose his temper. He backed down. ‘OK, so Jordan's now sane and he didn't have a motive, but you tell me, what motive could anyone have for kidnapping women, drugging them, and burying them alive?'

‘None that's obvious that I can see,' Dan said.

‘The psychiatrist suggested power.' Bill finished his coffee and crumpled his cup.

Trevor set aside the file on Jordan. ‘Have you considered that those women might not have been chosen at random? They were all leaving or had just left the hospital. Has anyone found out why?'

‘Twyford and Moon were patients who'd just been discharged.' Bill reined in his irritation when he recalled Trevor was a newcomer to the investigation.

‘Why weren't they reported missing?'

Peter finished his coffee. ‘Claire Moon told her mother that she planned to travel with a friend. We found her passport, foreign money – '

‘So whoever he is, he isn't a thief.' Trevor pushed his cold coffee aside.

‘Rosie Twyford told her mother she was going on holiday. And Elizabeth Moore was leaving for a job in America.'

‘Why America?' Bill asked.

‘Tony Waters said higher wages and better working conditions. She'd recently divorced.'

‘And there's a rumour going around that she was having an affair,' Peter interrupted.

‘Do we know who with?' Bill asked.

‘According to Angela Morgan, Tony. But in her opinion he was having affairs with virtually every female in the hospital.'

‘Why didn't you mention this at the briefing?' Bill demanded.

‘Hearsay,' Dan said baldly.

‘All sour grapes and no facts,' Peter supported Dan. ‘Nothing you can get your teeth into; only a middle aged woman who's probably griping because her boss has made a pass at everyone working here except her.'

‘And Vanessa Hedley?' Bill asked.

‘She's the wild card in the pack.' Peter reached in his pocket for a cigar but found it empty. ‘She saw him doing away with the others, and got done because she could identify him.'

‘But she couldn't,' Trevor remonstrated. ‘That's just the point.'

‘Murderer obviously thought so.'

‘Even if Tony Waters did have affairs with all three women,' Trevor continued, ‘that wouldn't explain why he'd want to kill them.'

‘You live like them, you grow like them. He works in a madhouse, doesn't he?' Peter saw pain flash across Trevor's face and regretted his poor joke.

‘I've interviewed Tony Waters and his wife,' Dan said slowly. ‘It's easy to see who wears the trousers in that household, and Tony's secretary agrees he's the dominant partner.'

‘Suspect number two.' Mulcahy turned the page, and wrote
Tony Waters
on the top of the next sheet. ‘Like Spencer, he's been here long enough to have carried out all four murders. And he has knowledge of the hospital.'

‘He knows this place better than anyone.' Peter paced to the window.

‘What about medical knowledge?' Bill asked.

‘He was a medical student for two years before he switched to a business studies course.'

‘I didn't know that.' Peter answered a knock at the door. Chris Brooke was outside with four bundles wrapped in white paper. Peter put his hand in his pocket and handed him a twenty pound note. ‘Thanks, mate, I owe you one.' He shut the door before the constable could hand him his change. He tossed the parcels across the table, and Trevor had a sense of being caught in a time warp. He'd been in a room with Peter, Bill and fish and chips before, and it had led to – he pulled himself up sharply, reminding himself that this time it was different. It was a new year and Dan was working with them.

‘Did Spencer Jordan know Vanessa Hedley?' Bill asked Trevor.

‘She attended his art therapy classes.'

‘So, he could have overheard her bragging about seeing the murderer?'

‘Along with all the other staff and patients,' Trevor lifted the corner of the paper wrapped around his fish and chips. Dan and Peter were already breaking off large lumps of battered cod.

‘What about the other victims?' Bill ferried a clump of greasy chips to his mouth.

‘Claire Moon and Rosie Twyford also attended his classes.' A piece of cod fell back on to the paper, leaving Peter snapping at thin air.

‘And Elizabeth Moore worked on Spencer's ward when he was a patient,' Dan continued.

‘So Spencer Jordan knew all of the victims.' Having finished his chips, Mulcahy wrapped his cod in the greaseproof bag and bit into it. ‘Any other ideas?'

‘Adam Hayter,' Peter offered.

‘Why?' Bill demanded.

‘Because he's an obvious pervert, because I don't like him, because he's been here for two years, and because he has the relevant knowledge.'

‘Not medical knowledge? He teaches needlework and cookery,' Bill demurred.

‘All the therapists are competent first-aiders,' Dan pushed the last piece of fish into his mouth, and crumpled his papers into a ball. ‘It was part of a cost-cutting package brought in by Tony Waters. They were all issued with tranquillisers to be used in emergencies, taught how to administer them, and in return all nursing cover was withdrawn from therapy groups.'

‘So Spencer Jordan and Adam Hayter have medical knowledge as well as knowledge of the hospital,' Bill conceded.

‘Look at Adam Hayter's profile,' Collins threw his chip papers into the bin. ‘Obsessively neat, lives with a domineering woman, impotent – '

‘I thought you didn't like profiles,' Bill reminded.

‘I don't think it's Hayter,' Dan said.

‘Why?' Peter pressed.

‘I can't give you a reason. I just feel it in my bones.'

‘He's got enough pluses to go on the list of suspects. Let's keep going. Anyone else?' Bill asked.

‘Harry Goldman fits all the criteria on the profile. Separated from his wife after six months of marriage. Divorced after two years. Lives alone. Collects trains – '

‘Collects what?' Trevor asked.

‘Trains,' Peter rummaged through the file until he came up with one marked
Goldman
, he passed it to Trevor. ‘Toy trains.'

‘Is there anyone we shouldn't be watching?' Bill asked caustically.

‘No one's mentioned the patients.' Trevor pushed aside the chips and cod he'd barely touched.

‘Michael Carpenter is dead. Patrick's checking Vanessa's body for time of death. But he doesn't fit the profile.'

‘What about Roland?' Trevor suggested.

‘Lechers aren't impotent. Psychiatrist threw him out,' Bill replied.

‘For my money he's a more likely candidate than Spencer Jordan.'

‘Trevor, just because you like the guy – ' Peter began.

‘He's no killer,' Trevor said firmly.

‘On what basis?'

‘He's too sensitive.' Trevor handed back the file on Spencer Jordan.

‘Now you're saying killers can't be sensitive? What about all those concentration camp guards who used to weep when they heard Beethoven and Mozart?'

‘Sensitive to music isn't sensitive to people. Psychopaths are often charming, cultured, but cold and dispassionate.'

‘Now you've decided our villain is a psychopath.'

‘Not necessarily.' Trevor fell silent. He sensed the others looking at him and he knew he was on probation.

‘In conclusion we have good reason to watch half the men in this hospital, but not enough evidence to hand one of them a parking ticket,' Bill concluded wearily.

* * *

Peter slowed his pace to match Trevor's as they crossed the lawn and headed for the ward blocks.

‘You think it's Spencer Jordan, don't you?' Trevor asked.

‘I don't know. What I do know is that my head hurts from thinking about it. You know what it's like on the Drug Squad. A junkie goes down, we pick up a cache, and we start looking. And we always know where to look, given that there are only four major dealers in this town. Your usual murder coughs up one or two obvious suspects, but this one – ' Peter stopped and stared into the shadows that surrounded the buildings ahead of them. ‘This one has to have – how many staff did you say worked here?'

‘I didn't.'

‘One week on this case and I feel as though I've been thinking about nothing else for years. I'd give a week's leave for a night off. I'd have a couple of jars down the pub – '

‘I still think there has to be a connection between the victims,' Trevor cut in.

‘They're not all women. There's also the dog,' Peter reminded.

‘I forgot about the dog.'

‘How could you. The dog Angela Morgan wept over, when it disappeared.'