The Ladykiller (67 page)

Murdered people were bad enough, but murdered children? They were the worst.

When they had received the call that the Grantley Ripper had decided to expand his area, they had all felt a sense of shame. They hadn’t stopped him and the man was on the move.

And the case had a new dimension. He killed little children now. Christ alone knew where he would strike next.

Kate heard the sound of sobbing and turned to the left. In a clump of yew trees stood DS Willis, head bent. Caitlin was patting him on the shoulder and lighting him a cigarette. It was the boy’s first child corpse.

Kate felt a surge of affection for the young man. And for Caitlin. Much as he tried to be the hardfaced know-all, Kate was realising he was in fact quite a soft-hearted man. She looked at the two bodies and pictured the tiny child trying to find his mother’s warmth. Crying, in acute pain, he had dragged himself to her. Believing, as all children believed, that she would protect him. Make him better. Only Mummy was already dead and the child’s time was running out.

Dicky Redcar had alerted the police to his wife’s disappearance at eleven fifteen.

Two patrolmen had found the Range Rover at eleven forty-nine and assumed she had tried to walk and maybe gone to a friend’s. There was no reason to suspect foul play. At one twenty-five they had begun a search; the bodies had been found just after two.

Kate had been alerted at five thirty that the Grantley Ripper had decided to extend his operations. The DNA on the woman had been conclusive. It was the same man, and the only clue they had were his tyre tracks.

As Caitlin had remarked, unless they had a definite make on the car the tyre tracks were a piss in the ocean. How many dark-coloured saloons were there, for heaven’s sake?

Kate saw Frederick Flowers arrive and heaved a sigh. The heavy mob was here. That meant the newspapers were already on to it.

Dicky Redcar was in shock. His three remaining children had been taken by relatives. His sister had wanted to stay with him, but he needed to be alone.

He sat in his study with a photograph of Cynthia and James on his lap. He could hear Major, one of his horses, whinnying outside the window.

The photograph showed Cynthia holding young James on a pony. He’d had a natural seat. All their children did. Rosie, nearly eleven, was already a name on the children’s eventing circuit. Jeremy, aged nine, was following in her footsteps. Even Sarah was a natural at five. It was what they had lived for. The horses, the children and each other.

Since returning from the Falklands, he had given up his army career and they had settled down to their ‘real life’, as they referred to it. He had seen enough death and carnage out there. He’d never expected to see it at home.

There was a knock at the door and he closed his eyes. He felt a shadow cross the window at his side and glanced up. Two men were standing there, smiling at him. Who the hell were they?

He rose from his seat and opened the window, putting the photograph on the sill.

‘What do you want?’

‘Hello.’ The man was tall and slim with a ready smile. ‘I wondered if we could have a word?’

The second man brought up a camera and the flash made Dicky Redcar reel.

Damned reporters!

‘Go away! Leave me alone. I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Come on now, sir, this is news. Five minutes and we’ll be gone.’

Dicky stepped away from them as if they were the plague. He side stepped his chair and stumbled from the room. The two men watched him bolt and shrugged their shoulders at each other. The tall man put his hand inside the open window and picked up the photograph.

‘Look what I’ve found.’ He raised his eyebrows in delight. ‘Not a bad-looking piece. Bit flat-chested, but you can’t have everything. Shame about the kid. His face is a bit blurred. Come on, let’s talk to the neighbours, see what we can gather. I hope he was a war hero, that always makes great copy.’

The two men slunk away.

Major whinnied again, wondering where his mistress was with his morning carrot.

Patrick was on a high. He had not slept from when he had left George Markham’s, his energies set on finding out everything about him.

He was now sitting outside Kortone Separates, waiting for people to arrive for work. The address and phone number had been in Elaine’s phone book.

A large man, slightly balding, drew up in the car park in a Granada and Patrick stepped from his Rolls-Royce. The early morning cold hit him, sending his breath into the sky life puffs of smoke.

‘Excuse me. Can I have a word?’

Peter Renshaw turned to look at the man. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the Rolls Royce. What could he want?

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘Do you work there?’ Patrick flicked his head in the direction of the factory opposite.

‘Yes?’ It was a question, coming out in a bewildered fashion.

‘Do you happen to know a George Markham?’ Patrick’s voice was friendly, friendly and neutral.

The man’s face relaxed.

‘Old Georgie? Know him well.’

Patrick gave him a big smile.

He opened the door of the Rolls and got inside, motioning for Peter Renshaw to follow him.

Peter clambered in, without a trace of fear. He could smell the pure luxury of the car and relaxed into the leather upholstery with glee.

‘Lovely motor.’

‘Thanks. Can I get you a drink?’ Patrick opened the small mini bar. It never failed to impress people, especially those in C-reg Granadas.

‘Bit early for me, it’s only eight twenty!’

‘Fair enough.’ Patrick poured himself a brandy and swirled it around the glass.

‘I’m Patrick Kelly, I don’t know if you’ve heard of me?’ He watched the man’s face drop. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no grievance with you. It’s George Markham I’m interested in. “Old Georgie” as you just referred to him, Mr . . .’

Peter Renshaw wished he’d taken the drink now. Patrick Kelly was serious trouble. What on earth could he want George for?

‘Renshaw. Peter Renshaw. I don’t really know George that well . . .’

He was babbling.

Patrick poured out another brandy and handed it to him. ‘I think me and you need to have a little chat, Peter. I can call you Peter?’

Renshaw nodded. As far as he was concerned, Patrick Kelly could call him anything he liked!

The car purred to life.

‘Where . . . Where are you taking me?’

‘Just for a little drive. Now calm down. I think you’re a sensible man. I think I can trust you.’ The threat was there as plain as daylight. ‘I can, can’t I?’

Peter drained the brandy at a gulp.

‘Yes. You can trust me, Mr Kelly.’

‘Call me Pat. All my friends do, and I want us to be friends, Peter. Now, starting from the beginning, I want you to tell me all you know about George Markham.’

‘But what for?’ It was out before he realised what he was saying.

‘Because, Peter, I asked you. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s reason enough. OK?’

He took a deep breath.

‘I only know him as a colleague at work. He’s a quiet little man. I suppose you could say I’ve always felt a bit sorry for him.’

Patrick’s eyebrows rose.

A quiet little man? He wouldn’t be quiet when he got his hands on him. He’d be screaming his head off.

He already had the make and reg of Markham’s car. That had been the easy bit. The hard bit was finding out where the hell the little bastard was. But if he could locate the car, he could locate George Markham.

Until then, he would hound everyone he could. Use force if necessary.

All his men had the description and details of George Markham’s car. He had been on to some friends in the Met and they were looking for it as well. Something had to give eventually.

Then he would have him in the palm of his hand.

Twenty minutes later, he dropped off Peter Renshaw outside Kortone Separates. It had been obvious he knew nothing of importance. Except that George was not coming back to work.

There was something going on here. Where was the wife? Was she with him? If so, they were looking for a couple.

In that case, Patrick would either have to get rid of her, or abduct George off the street.

Either way he’d get him.

Then the news of the murders came on the radio. Willy turned it up and put it over the intercom. Patrick listened as the newscaster’s voice droned on. He felt a coldness in his bowels. At the mention of the child he locked eyes with Willy in the mirror on the windscreen.

The filthy bastard!

It only added incentive.

Patrick felt Willy put his foot down and settled himself back in his seat. He stared at the passing scenery and then pulled the address book from his pocket.

‘I think the brother’s house next, Willy. We’ll drag him out if necessary, and fuck the consequences. No more pussy footing around.’

Willy nodded. Those were his thoughts entirely.

Joseph had been ringing around all morning. Yellow Pages was choc-a-bloc with nursing homes. Like all good businessmen he was finding out the rates before committing himself. Eighty-one his mother might be, but she could live for a good while yet. The council had informed him that she was not their responsibility and he had wondered briefly if they had ever met her. Once people had they generally kept well away.

She was shouting at Lily at the moment and the sound went through his skull. His wife had taken the school bell from her and now Nancy was demanding its return.

Lily had changed overnight. It was as if knowledge of his mother’s past had wiped away all fear of her.

He picked up the phone and began to dial the number of the Twilight Home for the Elderly.

Then there was a banging at his door.

‘I’ll get it, dear.’ Putting down the phone, he opened the front door and saw two men.

One was large with a bald head and a toothless grin. The other was tall, athletically built and very well dressed.

‘Joseph Markham?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘Would it be possible for us to talk in the house, Mr Markham? It’s about George.’

Without stopping to think, Joseph stepped out of the way so the two men could enter.

‘Who’s that at the bloody door?’

Nancy’s voice was at fever pitch. She was convinced the men would be coming to take her away at any moment.

‘My mother. She’s . . . not very well.’

Willy frowned.

‘She sounds all right.’

Patrick was having trouble controlling himself.

‘Look, about George. We wondered if you knew where he might be? He’s not at home. We really need to find him quite urgently.’

Joseph frowned.

‘Not at home? He was here yesterday. He came to visit Mother.’

‘Did he? Was he alone?’

‘Oh, yes, Elaine was working. Look, what’s all this about?’

Patrick walked towards the voice. He pushed the door open and walked inside.

Nancy saw him and immediately calmed herself.

Patrick watched her. It was as if a new skin grew over her in a matter of seconds. The wrinkles evened out and her face took on a sublime expression.

‘How do you do? Won’t you take a seat? Lily, make some tea.’

He smiled at the woman, a wide friendly smile. So this was the scumbag’s mother.

Lily looked at the two men and her eyebrows rose in a question. Joseph, in the doorway, shrugged in bewilderment. But if they shut his mother up, they could stay all day as far as he was concerned.

‘Make the tea, Lily.’ His voice was low.

She went from the room.

Patrick and Willy sat down.

‘We’re friends of George’s, Mrs Markham. We wondered if anyone knew where we could find him?’

Nancy Markham patted her outrageous hair and smirked. ‘I think there must be some mistake.’

‘Sorry?’ Patrick smiled again.

The woman’s face hardened.

‘My son hasn’t got any friends.’

Willy and Patrick exchanged glances.

No wonder the bloke was a nutter. The whole family seemed a few paving slabs short of a patio.

Out in the kitchen, Lily and Joseph made the tea.

‘Who the hell are they?’ hissed Lily.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, don’t you think you ought to find out then? After all, they are ensconced in our living room with your mother.’

Joseph allowed himself a small grin.

‘I think she can look after herself, Lily, don’t you?’

He put a few biscuits on a plate and added them to the tray. He would sit in and listen to the conversation. For some reason he didn’t fancy confronting the two men. They looked as if they could take good care of themselves.

George got off the plane and smiled at the hostesses. He walked down the flight of stairs and lifted his face to the bright Florida sun. He was in America. Before he knew what was going on he had collected his luggage, changed some money and was on a courtesy bus to Lindo’s car rental on Sandlake Road.

The driver of the bus was a large man in a leather baseball hat with ‘Chicago Bulls’ in blood red lettering across the front. His voice had a slow southern drawl and George was enjoying listening to it. It was so American.

‘Orlando Airport is one of only three airstrips that is capable of landing the Space Shutle in an emergency. As y’all know, Kennedy Space Centre is only twenty minutes’ drive from here, so if ever the shuttle missed its target, we could land it here, safe and sound.’ He paused for maximum effect then continued, ‘If you look out of your window on the left you will see a B52 bomber. This was used in the Vietnam War and is now here purely for ornamental purposes.’

George stared enthralled at the bomber, as did most of the little boys on the bus.

‘In England I understand you see dead cats and rabbits on your highways. Well, here in Florida, don’t be surprised to find baby ’gators flattened in the middle of the road. The ’gators are night creatures by nature and are very rarely seen during the daylight hours. They provide a natural security for the Space Centre, as you can imagine.’ He paused again and everyone laughed nervously.

‘But if you go to Gatorland you can have your photo taken with them and see the ’gator wrestlin’. Refreshments are provided there and you can even eat ’gator burgers.’