The Death Pictures (35 page)

Nine o’clock and he was feeling light-headed already. It was that bloody cheap champagne. And there was no respite either. They’d taken a taxi into the city centre and made it to the Exchequer Bar, next to St Andrews Church. El had ordered cocktails. Not a cocktail each, that was far too restrained. Before them stood a towering jug of technicolour pina colada. He was glad he’d bought those headache tablets when they’d passed a garage earlier. He suspected he’d need them, come the morning.

‘To warm me up for a little holiday I’ve got planned,’ El said gleefully, running a hand along the side of the jug. ‘I’m going to take a last-minute flight from Exeter to Spain and lie on a beach for a week. I reckon I deserve it.’

‘You sure do,’ shouted Dan above the music and the chatter. It was a crescendo, voices competing about the noise, the mix ever-rising. ‘Have you got any other dirty little projects lined up at the moment?’

El shook his head. ‘A job like the Death Pictures doesn’t come up very often. I’ve got some commissions for pics of hoodlums who are up at the crown court, but it’s all the usual stuff. You?’

‘Nothing work-wise.’ Dan thought for a moment. ‘Well, sort of work-wise I suppose. I’m trying to find the answer to the Death Pictures riddle.’

El looked interested, sipped the rest of his pina colada and poured them both a top up.

‘Getting anywhere?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice, no. I thought I had a couple of leads but they’ve come to nothing. There were other people who’d seen the possible clues too and were well ahead of me in fact. I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything that might help?’

El thought for a moment, stirred his drink.

‘I did have one idea, but I didn’t think it was up to much so I didn’t do any more about it.’ His grin widened. ‘Thinking’s not my thing really. I leave that sort of stuff to you.’

‘Come off it, El, you’re not daft,’ chuckled Dan. ‘And you know lots of gossip that might be useful. Let’s hear it. I could do with some help.’

El wasn’t listening. His eyes escorted a pair of young women as they wiggled their way to the bar, short and tight skirts, strappy high heels. A good show thought Dan, but… But what? What was bothering him about it? He was becoming too much of a detective, just as Lizzie had said. He could sense there was something wrong in the picture and wouldn’t let it go.

So what was it? He sipped his cocktail. The tan, that was it. They were both wearing fake tan to compliment their skimpy outfits and it almost convinced, but not quite. Understandable though, spring was an unattractive time of year. The inclination to don cooler and more revealing clothes as the world warmed, but the skin underneath still starkly pale from the dark winter months.

‘I don’t usually come in places like this,’ said El, still looking at the women. ‘But it has its advantages.’

‘Indeed it does,’ replied Dan, thinking of Claire and why he hadn’t seen her out before, wondering if perhaps he would tonight. ‘But come on, what was this you were saying about the thought you had?’

‘Oh, it was only a little thing. You know that first picture, with the woman I snapped and the phone between her legs?’

‘Joanna? Yes.’

‘Well, the phone’s got 01752 225 on it. Or put another way, Plymouth 225.’

‘Yeah, so what?’

‘It just made me think of Plymouth Street. Or just Plymouth as it’s known by the locals, and the Post Office too I think. Letters sent there just get addressed something like 17, Plymouth and they get there. To number 17, Plymouth Street, Plymouth.’

Dan had never heard of it. ‘The mind boggles. How do you know that?’

‘I did a photo of it for some ‘Where I Live’ feature for a magazine. Anyway, the only reason I mention it is because I thought McCluskey used to live there once, in Plymouth Street. But then I reckoned that was silly, and didn’t think anything more about it.’

Claire stopped on the street corner, knelt down low and peered around the jagged line of red brick wall. Godley was looking over his shoulder, then disappeared into a forecourt surrounded by garages. A metallic grinding noise echoed through the air. She crossed the road and walked quickly on, casting a glance over as she passed. A garage door was open, but there was no sign of Godley. She waited until she was past, then called Suzanne. He was up to something, she was sure of it. They didn’t know he had a lock-up. And anything could be hidden in there, anything. Suzanne called Adam.

‘Sir, I think we may be onto something.’

‘What?’ Adam sounded tired but eager.

‘He’s gone into a lock-up. We didn’t know he had a garage, did we?’

‘No, no idea. Stay on his tail. I’m coming over.’

Suzanne waited in the car, turned off the engine and slid down in the seat, eyes fixed on the garage door. Twilight now, ideal surveillance time, changing light and shadows to hide in. She eyed the clock. Five minutes, six, seven ticked by. A head poked out of the garage, looked around, then back in again. Another minute passed, then another. Finally he emerged, closed the door, walked off quickly.

Claire stayed following on the opposite side of the street, still well back, whispering updates into her phone. White headlights loomed behind the Astra. Adam pulled up, got in and took the phone from Suzanne.

‘Make sure he doesn’t see you Claire, keep well back. We’re behind you and we’ll take over in a minute,’ he whispered.

Adam turned to Suzanne. ‘Back in a sec,’ he said, opening the car door. ‘I need that off-licence.’

He emerged with a four pack of lager and a bottle of wine. ‘Disguises,’ he said. ‘You carry the wine, I’ll take the beer. And here,’ he added, passing a baseball cap. ‘Stick your hair up, he won’t recognise you in this.’ Adam opened a tin and took a drink. ‘Thirsty work and the ideal disguise.’ He walked up the road to take over from Claire.

It was quiet on the streets, the time of night where people had mostly got to where they wanted to be. Godley kept walking, but to where? He was heading up the hill out of town, towards the old village of Higher Compton, long since subsumed into the city. He hardly looked back over his shoulder now, seemed satisfied he wasn’t being followed.

Had what he’d said on the television, about them being nowhere near catching him worked, Adam thought? Had it flushed him out, convinced him it was safe to attack again? If it was, he’d take that mauling from Flood as a price well worth paying. If…

Ahead, Godley had stopped and was kneeling, pretending to tie up a shoelace. But he was looking around, head scanning back and forth. Had the man seen him? He couldn’t take the risk and stop or hide, had to keep going, act naturally. Adam took a swig at the tin of lager and put on a gentle sway as he walked, just another good-natured drunkard off to a party.

He was yards from Godley now, getting closer by the step, the man still pretending to fumble with his shoes. What to do? Look at him or not? Say something? A big moment, get the gamble wrong and it could send him scuttling home. What to do? It wouldn’t be natural not to say anything, would it?

‘You alright down there, mate?’ Adam tried to slur his speech a little, roughen it. ‘You OK?

‘Fine, yes thanks. Just got a loose shoelace.’

‘Cheers then.’

Adam walked unsteadily on, spilt some drink from his can and managed a loud burp. He didn’t look back, but saw in a car’s side mirror that Godley was up again and off into the street he’d stopped by. He was sure he’d seen a bulge in the man’s jacket, sure of it. He whispered into his phone for Suzanne to join him. Was it time to call in reinforcements? Not yet. They couldn’t be sure yet, didn’t have the damning evidence they needed. And they had to be sure.

He stood, watched Suzanne walking towards him, past the road. A quick glance down it and she carried on, beckoned to him.

He ran over.

‘He’s gone up there,’ she whispered urgently. ‘The alley there between the houses.’ She pointed and they walked slowly up the street together. There was no sign of Godley.

‘Come on,’ hissed Adam. It was almost dark, the last light seeping away fast. They mustn’t lose him, not now. They crept slowly up the alley and found two identical gardens either side of them, both with metal gates. Lights were on in the downstairs of the house on the left, a hint of a TV’s burble, all dark on the right.

They waited, silently. Nothing, no sound or movement. They waited. A plane droned by overhead. Then, suddenly, a shadow of a figure in front of the lit windows.

Suzanne started forwards, but Adam reached out an arm, held her back.

‘Surely we’ve got enough now, sir,’ she whispered. ‘He’s prowling, about to break in. We’ve got plenty of evidence.’

‘Not if he doesn’t have that witch’s hat with him. Wait. Let’s wait and get him game, set and match.’

‘You’re gambling with the safety of whoever’s in there, sir.’

Yes, he was, he knew it. And it wasn’t the first time. Together they could stop Godley, arrest him, but what if he had a knife, knew he was about to be caught? Managed to get into the house and took a hostage? A woman? Her young child? Cornered people could find unnatural strength in desperation. He knew that from those days long ago on the beat, their legacy in his crooked nose.

But they still didn’t yet have the evidence they needed. They couldn’t be sure of a conviction. It had to be right, to wait to see what he did. Be sure they had him, had enough to see him locked up for long years to come. But what if it was Sarah in that house, what would he do then? Or Annie…

‘We wait Suzanne. He’s not going to hurt anyone and he’s not going to get away. I promise you that.’

They ducked back in the garden. A cat slid by, sniffed at them, rubbed against Adam’s legs. A car passed in the street, music thumping a bass beat from its open windows. The silhouetted figure froze, waited, then moved again. A sudden sound, a complaining creak followed by splintering.

‘Go!’ whispered Adam. They bolted forward. The figure turned, but before he could move Adam had him, around the waist, wrestled him to the floor. He struggled but it was hopeless against the detective’s venting anger. Adam had one arm, pinning him down, knees on the man’s chest as hard as he could, winding him, knocking the fight from his body. Suzanne gripped the other arm, twisted it.

An outside light clicked on, flooding the garden with stark whiteness. A key turned and a door opened, a young woman in a dressing gown, hair in rollers, stared down as Adam handcuffed the struggling man.

‘Here, what the hell’s going on?’ she shrieked. ‘I’ll have the police on you.’

‘We are the police,’ grunted Adam. Suzanne fished a warrant card out of her pocket, waved it. ‘But I’d be grateful if you’d call 999 and tell them Adam Breen said to send a car here. Tell them we’ve caught the rapist.’

‘Oh my God!’ A hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Is he..? Was he..? I mean, was he coming for me..?’

Adam didn’t answer. He stared down at the man, hiding his face in the grass, but there was no mistaking. It was him. Suzanne pulled open his jacket. Out fell a child’s witch’s hat, innocent gold stars and moons stuck to its small black plastic cone. It lay on its side on the floodlit grass.

Adam stared at it, felt a surge of rage rip through him. He could feel Sarah, standing there with him, tearful and wretched, her life wrecked, then Rachel, the same, then the others, all watching, all waiting for their justice. He could feel the ecstasy of his fists beating into the man’s face, time and again, pounding and pummelling, his feet stamping, grinding, despatching him into bloody annihilation.

He controlled himself, breathed deeply, pushed the fantasy away, focused on his job. He was panting, breathing fast, his mind racing and his eyes wide and wild. Duty, at last he could do his delicious duty.

He leaned forwards, next to the head pressed into the grass. He couldn’t stop his voice from shaking. ‘Will Godley, I arrest you on suspicion of rape…’

Chapter Twenty-one

Dan reached for the headache tablets through the slits of his eyes, ignored the flashing, stabbing daggers that split his vision, made a guess at the size of his hangover and popped four from their plastic wrapping. Champagne, cocktails, beer and whisky. A toxic combination. Four seemed about right. He gulped them down with some water, concentrated on not retching and closed his eyes again.

He woke again a couple of hours later with Rutherford’s insistent wet nose in his face. This time, opening his eyes wasn’t the cue for fireworks to begin their flashing and crashing in his brain. He waited tentatively for a wave of engulfing sickness. Nothing came. Encouraging.

He swung himself out of bed and was relieved to find no sweats, shivers or shakes. In fact he felt remarkably well. Good stuff, those tablets. He’d have to remember them.

‘Toilet time hound?’ he rasped in a voice he only barely recognised. It was amazing how a night of drinking could turn you into a soul singer. Rutherford yelped and Dan opened the front door, watched the dog scuttle around the corner of the flat and down to the garden. The gust of cool air from the outside world tasted fresh and rejuvenating.

It had been a fine night. El was true to his word and paid for everything, even that ill-advised decision to go to the Moorings Club to do some dancing. He should have known better. When he thought he could dance it was definitely time to go home.

The only disappointment was not seeing Claire, but then, given the state he was in, that was probably for the best. He wouldn’t exactly have made a good impression on a sober woman, more likely blown it in a new record time. She’d been kind enough to text him to say work had kept her late and he’d no doubt soon find out why. Some other time she hoped. There was another kiss too. He’d saved the message, kept looking at it throughout the night.

What did that mean, about finding out why she’d been busy? She was working on the rapist case, he knew that. Some developments? He sensed a story, but then it was the weekend and he wasn’t feeling up to investigating, not yet anyway. He’d call Adam later to see what was going on. Work could look after itself for a while. It’d had its pound of flesh – more like a whole limb in fact – for the week.

There was a stale smell of meat in the flat so he checked the kitchen. Ah yes, the familiar remains of a kebab, how delightfully predictable. He tasted the chilli sauce and flinched, then quickly downed a glass of water. Good job he had the benefit of numbing drunkenness or his taste buds would have melted. There was a note in the kitchen too, in very bad handwriting. Puzzled he leaned over to check who’d been in the flat. It took a good few seconds before he recognised the writing as his own.

Dear handsome fella,
(it read)

I thought I’d better remind yer about Plymouth Plymouth and number 225, as El said, coz you’ve been drinking and won’t remember in the morning otherwise, you pissed idiot.

Go get that picture big boy!

Love, yer biggest fan,

Dan.

PS. You dance shite
.

He leaned back against the cool white of the fridge freezer and shook his head. What went on in his mind was enough of a mystery when he was sober. Drunk it was even worse, and it seemed to be deteriorating. He couldn’t remember ever leaving notes for himself before.

A scrabbling at the front door interrupted his musing and he let Rutherford back in. The dog looked meaningfully at the cupboard where his lead was kept and sat down in front of it. As subtle as his master, that dog.

‘OK, mate, I get the hint, no decent walks for a while. We’ll go in a minute. I could do with clearing my head.’

He looked at the note again. What rubbish was he talking anyway? Plymouth Plymouth and 225? Then it came back to him, El’s guess at a possible solution to the Death Pictures riddle. He felt the familiar, creeping excitement branching out through his body. His hangover forgotten, he rummaged through his bookshelves and found the A to Z of Plymouth. There it was, Plymouth Street, a couple of miles away down towards the embankment.

‘Come of dog, we’re off for a new run,’ Dan rasped. ‘Call it a journey of discovery. Hopefully anyway.’

It was a horribly tough call. But he’d made it and he knew it was right. Now though, now the guilt was burning and he wondered how much damage he’d done. But he had to be there to interview Godley. He had to.

‘Annie, there’s no easy way to say this, but I can’t make it today.’

‘What? What?! But it’s Saturday! We’re supposed to be taking Tom to the worm-charming festival! He’s so looking forward to it, and seeing you.’

‘Annie, I’m really sorry…’

‘And you couldn’t make it round here in the week either, that bloody surveillance operation you said you had to run.’

She was angry, very angry, his phone distorting with her firing words.

‘Annie, I really am sorry, but I was trying to catch this rapist. And now we have got him, I have to question him today, and charge him…’

‘What? It’s the same thing all over again, isn’t it? Your work coming before your family! Christ, it was bad enough you not turning up in the week, but weekends! Haven’t you got anyone else who works for the police force? Are you the only bloody one?’

He knew how much trouble he was in when he heard her swear, even such a mild word.

‘Listen, Annie, I’ll make it up to you and Tom. I will, I’ll take us all…’

‘Oh yeah, you’ll always make it up, won’t you? That is until something important comes up, then you drop us. Just like that.’

‘Annie, please, this is important.’

‘And we’re not?’

Shit. Why had he said that?

‘No, no, of course, it’s just…’

‘It’s just we’re always the thing in your life that can give, aren’t we? We’re always the expendable ones, your wife and your son. And just when I thought we were on the verge of getting back together and making it work.’

He’d felt his temper bite then, couldn’t hold it.

‘Maybe you should feel proud of me, eh? Has that occurred to you? That your husband has caught a man who was terrorising women in this bloody city? An evil bastard of a rapist! That he’s got to interview him to make sure the case against him is watertight so he goes to prison for a long, long time? Maybe you should think of that!’

She’d cut the call and wouldn’t answer when he’d rung back. Hadn’t answered all morning, mobile off and no one at home. He hoped she’d taken Tom to the worm-charming at Blackawton, hoped too her anger had calmed and she’d been kind, told him Dad was ill, or had been called away. Not that he didn’t care, or other things were more important to him. Please not that.

Maybe she had a point. He was here, at Charles Cross, wasn’t he? Not in the quaint Devon village of Blackawton, buying ice creams, explaining to Tom about the mystic art of worm-charming, holding Annie’s hand, laughing with her at the contestants’ bizarre antics.

But it was the right decision. He knew it was. It had to be. It was his case. He was the senior officer and it was up to him to make sure they did it right, that Godley couldn’t be freed for a long time. He wanted to enjoy the man’s face as he charged him with the rapes, wanted to see Godley led down to the cells.

Suzanne and Claire could have handled it, but Godley was a woman hater. Adam wondered if he would even talk to them. He had to be there, had no choice. But still he thought of Annie and Tom, watching those wonderful idiots pouring their potions into the ground, or playing trumpets or singing into it in their ludicrous attempts to entice as many worms as possible from the safety of the warm and quiet earth. Sometimes a worm’s life could seem so very appealing.

They jogged down through the Deer Park, towards the embankment. Dan couldn’t stop his mind filling with hope that the answer could lie in Plymouth Road. He was prepared for disappointment after what had happened before, but he couldn’t suppress that resurgent swell of excitement and anticipation. And anyway, what was there to lose? It was a beautiful day. He could do with a run and Rutherford was enjoying his exercise. Checking out El’s hunch could just be a part of it. That was a good safety net for disappointment.

The mud track they followed was dry and flashes of bluebells lit the hedges as they ran past. A pair of magpies hopped across the rough tarmac of the road next to them, chattering to each other, circling, dancing, showing off their ink and white wings. A car slowed as it approached the birds, but they took no notice, went on with their embrace, oblivious. The driver hooted his horn and they flapped off to the roof of a red-brick house to continue their courtship.

The mating season, Dan thought as he puffed up a gentle hill. Springtime and the world is feeling determinedly frisky, not interested in the impertinent distractions of cars and people. On the subject of which, what would he do about Claire now?

She seemed keen to see him, and he wanted to see her. He could wait until next weekend. That would be the cool thing to do. But why wait? Follow the example of the magpies perhaps and flutter his wings, take her for a drink this week? For dinner even? He was a messy eater though, wasn’t he? That’s what comes of living alone and heating up the fridge’s contents, rather than cooking. Maybe just a drink then.

Rutherford had found a fascination in a hedgerow, his head half buried in the leaves, his tail wagging fast, a black and brown blur in the spring air. Just as Dan was almost upon him, the dog yelped and jumped back, turned to his master, whimpering, jerking his head from side to side in spasms of pain.

Oh no, what’s he done this time? Dan thought. Rutherford was a serial victim of curiosity-induced injury. In the last year, he’d managed to badly cut his nose on an old tin can and poke himself in the eye with a tree branch when chasing a stick. Both required expensive trips to the vet. It was worse than being a parent. At least with kids you had the NHS. No such help for a stupid, disaster-prone dog.

‘Come here boy, come here,’ Dan soothed, and cupped the dog’s head in his hands, checked his eyes, nose and mouth. Nothing obviously wrong, though his nose was dripping. He didn’t seem to be in real pain now. Maybe just the shock of a poke from a protruding stick?

The hedgerow rustled furtively and the dog looked round, but didn’t plunge his nose back into the undergrowth.

‘So you do learn lessons then?’ said Dan, trying not to chuckle with the relief of finding Rutherford wasn’t badly hurt. He leaned over carefully and looked into the grass and leaves, moved some aside with a tentative hand. A snarling fox? A growling cat? A movement made him flinch back, but then he burst out laughing. Curled up at the bottom of the bank was a hedgehog, two black eyes peering suspiciously from within its ball of spines.

‘There’s your conquering foe, you pathetic hound,’ he said. ‘Seen off by a hog eh? I don’t know, what use would you be against a burglar?’

Dan knew exactly what had happened, had seen it before. The hog had got fed up with the dog sniffing at him and had sprung upwards, spiking Rutherford’s nose. It was a shock, but nothing serious.

‘Come on then, you great warrior,’ he called to the dog, jogging on again. ‘Let’s leave the victor in peace.’

They ran on down the hill and into a maze of streets. Dan stopped to check the map, wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve. Just on the left here he thought. They turned a corner and came out into Plymouth Road.

It was a long one, probably one of the city’s earlier streets, busy until the dual carriageway embankment was built to usher the rushing traffic in and out of the city centre. There were houses down both sides, long lines of terraces. The River Plym sparkled behind, a ribbon of diamonds in the sunshine. The tide was low, black dots of birds pecking busily at the wizened mudflats. Dan put Rutherford back on his lead and they walked along, counting down to number 225. His excitement was growing again, he couldn’t help it. Hope was irrepressible. Maybe this time.

Godley hadn’t asked for a solicitor, a good sign, thought Adam. He wanted a confession, a signed statement, no need for a trial. He didn’t want to see those women in the witness box, reliving their ordeal, listening to the defence counsel suggest they’d given Mr Godley the come on, that they’d lured him into doing what he did.

Offensive, repellent, so hard to sit there quietly and take, but that was what they did. Godley couldn’t very well deny he was the attacker. They had all the evidence they needed. But if he was the misogynist Adam thought, he would enjoy his day in court, his one last triumph over his victims. He could delight in their distress, savour the wounds he’d inflicted. And there was always the chance the trauma would be too much for the women to continue with their testimony and the case would collapse. That had happened before, too many times. He couldn’t risk it here.

Most suspects they had in this interview room sat slumped over the table, looked defeated, sullen. Some sat upright, tense and angry, silently stiff with defiance. With a few it was hard to stop them talking, so relieved were they to finally confess their crimes, a lancing of the toxins that had festered within them.

Will Godley was none of those. He sat on the plastic chair, legs crossed, humming a tune, looking relaxed and writing a couple of notes on a piece of paper. Adam pressed the record button on the tape machine and sat down opposite him. Suzanne stayed standing by the door, alongside a uniformed officer.