The Death Pictures (22 page)

‘I’d like to talk to you about rape, Mr Freeman. A series of rapes in fact.’

His head snapped up and those narrow eyes widened. His feet stopped tapping. Surprise at the accusation? Or shock at being caught? He said nothing, just looked at her. Suzanne sensed the advantage.

‘Where were you last Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday?’

‘I never done no rapes.’

‘That wasn’t the question. Where were you?’

‘I never done no rapes.’

‘Answer the question.’

He thought for a moment.

‘Dunno.’ The whining voice was higher now, more strained. ‘Taxiing probably, or at home.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘Nah.’ A fast answer she thought, too fast? ‘I live on me own. I drive alone.’

An idea grew in Suzanne’s mind, making her hesitate before her next question. They hadn’t found a connection between the three women. What if they’d taken a taxi in the last few weeks? What if the driver had been Mr Steven Freeman? A little bit of harmless chat to find out if they were attached, if there was a man in the house. A note of the address to come back to. A drive past once or twice, just to check. Wait a while, let the memory of the flirty taxi driver fade, then strike. But was he a woman hater?

‘How do you get on with Julia now, Mr Freeman?’ Suzanne asked.

The eyes widened again, but this time she could see what was in them. He couldn’t resist the bait.

‘She’s a bitch,’ he whined, and for the first time the words came quickly and easily. It was something he’d said many times before. ‘She left me. Threw me out. Took my kid away. Then she wants my money. She’s a bitch.’

Time to think for a moment, pretend to jot some notes, a trick she’d learned from Adam Breen. Means, motive and opportunity, they’re all there. His record says he can be violent. He’s a bitter man. The taxi link could be a good one. They’d have to check with their victims, then come back to Steven Freeman. But there could be a short cut, couldn’t there?

‘Mr Freeman, that’s about all I need to know for now. But I must just ask if you would provide us with a hair or saliva sample for a DNA test, so we can rule you out of our inquiries?’

‘No,’ he whined quickly.

It’d been a busy afternoon thought Dan, as he drove them back to Charles Cross, and it could get busier yet. He hadn’t believed Kid was the killer, but now he had to admit Adam’s theory was looking persuasive. If he was charged before 6.30, it would be another burst of stress and panic to get the news on air. If it was later, he’d have to stay around for the 10.25 bulletin. Well, whatever, that was his job. And it would mean he could have some time off tomorrow morning to have another go at the Death Pictures.

First, they’d seen the McCluskeys’ neighbour, Mr Jarvis. He’d been a pleasant enough old chap, but a classic nose. Out in his garden all hours. Keeping it pristine, yes, but also forever on the look out for comings and goings and the tantalising prospect of a titbit to talk about.

Dan and Adam had admired the newly shaped hedge as directed – topiary he’d told them proudly, that was his hobby – and made all the right noises about the colours and variety of the plants he’d bedded in.

Dan had managed to stifle a laugh when Jarvis had told them about his daughter’s impending wedding at Kitley House, a local stately home. His pride was bursting – his son-in-law-to-be a merchant banker you know, top London firm, old money – but the sums it was costing, oh the money. He was determined none of her desires would be spared. She would have the dream wedding she wanted. Money wasn’t the point where happiness was concerned, was it?

Dan had to stifle an aching urge to puncture the pomposity with a question about who would be taking the wedding photographs. No doubt a famous London photographer, not one of those sleazy local paparazzi types? But Adam was alongside, needed questions answered, and they couldn’t afford to alienate someone who could be an important witness. Shame. It would have been so enjoyable.

Abi McCluskey had left the house at 7.15, Jarvis told them. Yes, he was quite sure about the timing. He rolled up his sleeve to show off a new looking silver watch, a birthday present from his wife. He had two watches, one for everyday wear and one for smarter occasions, and he always knew exactly what the time was. Dan looked ruefully down at his own watch. One day he might buy an accurate model.

She’d said goodbye to Joseph. Yes, he was sure about that, had heard quite clearly from the garden. He might be getting on, but there was nothing wrong with his ears. No, he couldn’t swear to the exact words – and looked crestfallen for it – but they were something like ‘back in an hour or so darling,’ then a pause, then ‘no, I won’t forget the milk.’ She’d left with their Boxer dog, Darwin.

No, he hadn’t seen anyone else arrive – crestfallen again, he’d gone inside for his tea – until the police at just after eight. Then there was all that fuss with the ambulance and the detectives and the media. And then the terrible news about Joseph. Terrible, thought Dan, but enough delicious gossip to see this scrutineer through the rest of his natural days.

Abi McCluskey’s story had checked out. Into the corner shop to buy some milk at about 7.30, confirmed by the owner who knew her well. ‘She often comes in around that time as she’s walking Darwin.’ Then just up the road to pop in on a friend for a chat. ‘We wanted to talk about a guided walk on the coast near Torquay,’ the woman had told them. Abi left at about eight.

Abi had been re-interviewed too. Adam had only one question for her. Was there any possible way that Kid’s fingerprints could be on a knife in your house?

She’d thought about that, long and hard, acutely aware just what difference her answer could make to a man’s life.

‘Yes,’ she’d said finally, making Adam stop tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He leaned forwards towards her as she sat on the sofa, curled up in the same corner as before.

‘How?’ Adam asked slowly.

She thought again, closed her eyes for a moment. When she spoke she was careful with her words.

‘Kid has been round for dinner a couple of times. In fact, that was the first thing Joseph wanted to do when they’d made their peace, have him round to eat. He was very proud of my cooking and I think it was a symbolic thing for him.’

Adam had smiled indulgently but his voice was tense. ‘Go on.’

She was picking at a toenail again. ‘Well, that’s it. He came round for dinner a couple of times. I can’t remember exactly what I cooked, but we usually put whatever it is out on the table and serve it from there. I think it’s much more civilised that way. Then your guests can see what they’re going to eat and have as much or as little as they want.’

Adam held his encouraging smile.

‘So you have the knives out too?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Abi nodded, but didn’t stop picking at her feet. ‘If we’re carving a joint then we’ll have the knife out. Or if we’re cutting bread we’ll have a knife for that too. And for cheese of course.’

Adam noted that down, much more slowly than usual.

‘Abi, this is important,’ he said. ‘I know it’s difficult, but please try to remember. I know you realise how important it is. Can you recall Kid ever using a knife here?’

She closed her eyes and the skin on her forehead bunched into lines of concentration. ‘I can’t remember,’ she said finally. ‘I think he might have, but I just can’t remember for sure.’

Adam nodded and shifted in his chair. ‘I understand. It’s not the sort of thing you notice or that sticks in your mind. But can you help me with this? Can you remember when he came round?’

She got up from the sofa. ‘Yes, I can tell you that exactly.’ By the phone in the corner of the room was a small black diary. She flicked through the pages. ‘The last time was…’ she found the page she was looking for. ‘March the fourth.’ She nodded to emphasise her certainty. ‘Yes, March the fourth. Just under two months ago.’

Dan saw Adam relax, lean back in his chair, straighten his already pristine tie.

‘Abi, just one more question before we leave you alone, and it’s going to sound like a silly one. But it is important too,’ said Adam. She stayed by the phone, waited, tilted her head slightly to one side. ‘What would have happened to a knife you’d used for dinner?’

‘It’d just go straight into the dishwasher.’

‘And that would be the case every time you used it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t have any special knives you only get out for certain occasions?’

The question didn’t surprise her. She knew exactly what Adam was thinking.

‘No.’

‘So any knife you’d used for a dinner two months ago would have been through the dishwasher...?’

‘Scores of times.’

Dan thought Adam looked smug.

Did they have a breakthrough? The elusive link between the victims?

They might, thought Suzanne. They just might. All three had been re-interviewed and yes, all three had taken black cabs in the past three months.

‘Are we going to arrest him?’ Claire asked. She was keen, had worked hard, efficient and precise. Suzanne couldn’t tell if it was because they were hunting a rapist – she’d felt the extra impetus herself – or if her mind was on her career. Claire seemed driven, but then she always worked hard on her cases.

She hadn’t liked Claire at first. There was no particular reason for that, or at least none she wanted to think about. But she knew, if she was honest with herself. Claire was everything she wasn’t. She was beautiful, what men called a head-turner, and that could help in a male dominated career. All she’d had over Claire before was rank. And then came her promotion…

But she prided herself on being fair and honest, a good policewoman, and Claire hadn’t put a foot wrong. Far from it. They’d even reached the cusp of becoming friends, that telling moment when they’d talked a little about their private lives. During one late night, going through alibis in the MIR, Claire had confessed to the loneliness that so often came with the job. How coping with the case would be so much easier if there was someone to go home to.

Suzanne had listened and almost told her about Adrian. Almost, but not quite. They weren’t that close yet, though it could come she thought. Claire had been a friend where Suzanne had expected a rival, and she was grateful.

So were they going to arrest Freeman? On what basis? He’d run from them, but he had a plausible explanation for that, good enough for many juries at any rate. Plenty of people ran from the police. He didn’t like women. He wouldn’t give a DNA sample. He had a record for violence. He drove a black cab, and all three victims had used one in the months before they were attacked.

But that was all circumstantial, wasn’t it? None of the women could remember a taxi driver being unusually interested in them. Yes, they were men – black cabs seemed to be a man’s game – and yes they thought they could recall a bit of chat. Yes, on a couple of occasions the driver did ask about partners or husbands, but that wasn’t unusual. Being in a taxi, alone with a man, it was an easy opportunity for them to work a bit of charm, test the temperature of the water, try their luck.

A couple of the journeys had been late, getting home from town after a night out. That made the memories so foggy as to be almost useless. The others had been shopping trips, meetings with friends on rainy days, mundane events that didn’t stay in the mind. None of the women could remember anyone like Freeman driving them. One said she did have a driver with a bit of a high voice, but nothing out of the ordinary. It could have been him, but… But it could also have been anyone. As solid evidence, it meant nothing.

So what to do? What would Adam Breen do? The attempt to trace the witches’ hats had come to nothing, but she’d expected that. They could try an identity parade, but she knew it would be hopeless. The women’s memories of their taxi drivers were vague at best. And the rapist had always made sure he was well disguised.

How about some surveillance? They were tailing Godley. Why not do the same for Freeman? They wouldn’t expect to catch their man carrying out an attack. Of course not, that wasn’t the point. Both suspects knew well enough now of the police’s interest in them. If one was the rapist, he would hardly go out and try to strike again. The tail was there to put the pressure on, the unspoken hope that the man would lose his temper, take a swing at the officer. Then you’ve got the grounds to arrest him, bring him in and take his DNA. Second best, at least it would stop him attacking again.

So was it worth tailing Freeman? Why not? But how do you follow someone who drives a cab? It’d take a patrol car for a whole shift, and despite what DCI Breen had said about making the resources available, she couldn’t imagine getting that. Still, it was worth a try. They didn’t have much else at the moment but suspects. Suspects, but no evidence.

First though, they had to finish the list and see the last of their possible woman-haters.

It was six o’clock. Munroe would be back from his case at the Crown Court by now. Edward Munroe, eminent barrister, highly successful, all the biggest cases, hired by anyone with enough money to afford him. Keen seeker of loopholes in the law and discrediter of good evidence. Known quietly amongst the detectives in Greater Wessex police as the Devil’s Advocate.

Dan drove them back to Charles Cross while Adam made a couple of phone calls. As he listened to one half of the technical, forensics and autopsy discussions he found his mind again drifting to the Death Pictures. They wouldn’t leave him, seemed to hover permanently on the edge of his consciousness, calling for his attention.