THE MURDERER'S SON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 17

  ‘There’s a police car out in front of your house,’ she panted. ‘We should have called them first instead of chasing him ourselves. I’ll go tell them what has happened. You go home and ring Professor Preston, okay?’

  For a moment Skye looked longingly in the direction Daniel had taken, then she nodded, turned around and trudged back to the house.

  * * *

  Marie decided that Orac had been right about retired DI Peter Hodder. He was a sweet old guy. He made tea in a proper tea pot and carefully strained the leaves through a silver strainer.

  Hodder lived in a warden-controlled apartment in a converted mansion. The grounds were spectacular, if somewhat overgrown, and although the old house looked cold and austere from the outside, the apartments were surprisingly welcoming, spacious and clean. Hodder’s retained some of the original features, including a long casement window that looked out over the gardens, a cast-iron surrounded fireplace and heavily ornate ceiling coving.

  ‘So is this the new detective sergeant’s uniform these days?’ Hodder’s eyes twinkled at Marie’s motorcycling leathers and heavy protective boots.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Marie grinned at him. He made a refreshing change from some of the hard-baked, embittered and overweight retired detectives that she’d met in the past, and from his steady hand and focussed gaze she was certain that he hadn’t had recourse to the bottle either.

  She accepted the tea and sipped it gratefully. ‘I’m sorry that I’m not here to talk to you about a more cheerful subject, but we are hoping that you may be able to help us.’

  The old man eased himself down into a soft reclining leather chair and adjusted the position. ‘This cost a fortune, my dear, but goodness me, it’s worth it! After Lord knows how long on the beat, and years chasing rogues, the old joints need all the help they can get.’ He settled back and folded his hands in his lap. ‘But it’s not chairs you want to talk about, is it? It’s that she-devil, Françoise Thayer.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Marie set her cup down. ‘We’ve had two murders on our patch and a young man has confessed to them both. The problem is that there is no supporting evidence to say he did kill the women. He only thinks he’s the killer because he believes that he’s Thayer’s son.’

  ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ The old man’s rheumy eyes widened. ‘Not something I’d be happy to admit to.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I read about one woman in the newspaper, but there’s another?’

  ‘Yes. We kept it quiet until we had her identity, but it will be on tonight’s news. She was a nurse at the local hospital.’

  ‘And were both women brutally stabbed?’

  ‘Savage attacks, both of them.’ She paused. ‘There was a lot of blood.’

  Peter Hodder looked at her thoughtfully. ‘So you know about Thayer’s little penchant for sanguineous liquid?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘And you are making comparisons with the new cases and her slayings?’

  ‘We have to. We don’t want to, but because of things that our suspect has said we can’t ignore the possibility.’ Marie picked up her cup, and then told him about the missing evidence boxes and trial transcripts. ‘It’s hard to find parallels when your original records have most likely gone up in smoke.’

  ‘Damn near impossible, I’d say.’ Hodder sipped his own tea. ‘But how can I help? It’s been years, and my memory is not what I’d call one hundred per cent reliable anymore.’

  ‘It was your last major case, sir. I suspect that you can remember every detail, in glorious Technicolour, but that’s not exactly what we’re looking for.’ Marie licked her lips and wondered how to phrase her request without upsetting the old boy. ‘We desperately need to prove whether our suspect is or isn’t a blood relative of Françoise Thayer. If the evidence boxes had been available we could have done a DNA test on something of hers and settled it.’

  ‘But they aren’t. And now you are wondering if I might just have a tiny keepsake?’ His face darkened. ‘Believe me, Sergeant Evans, I needed nothing to remind me of her. I have my nightmares and they will never let me forget that evil mocking smile.’ He sat back, all trace of anger gone. ‘I believe that the word “evil” is grossly overused, but it’s completely apt where Françoise Thayer is concerned. She was the only woman — no, the only person, that I have ever encountered who was utterly soulless and beyond help, from either man or God. She affected the lives of every single one of the officers who worked on that case. I am certain that even though she is dead and gone, none of them sleep soundly because of her.’ He blinked. ‘So I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I was never even slightly tempted to secure a token of any kind, let alone one that might still contain some precious DNA.’

  Marie nodded. There it was.

  ‘However, I do still have my pocket-books.’

  Marie stiffened.

  Peter Hodder smiled. ‘I dug them out them immediately after I spoke to that wonderful scary woman from your IT department.’ The sad smile widened. ‘Luckily I was always very good about keeping accurate records, very fastidious. You won’t get DNA, but you will be able to relive the horrors of my nightmare with me, as the case unfolded.’

  Marie’s spirits lifted. This was better than she’d hoped for. She had done a check on DI Peter Hodder, and his record was exemplary. He was a real intuitive policeman with a nose for the truth. It was no surprise that he’d been methodical and thorough. ‘You’re a hero, sir. And I’ll make sure that you get them back as soon as we’ve finished with them.’

  ‘Frankly, my dear, I think it’s time they moved on to pastures new. Use them, and I hope they are of some help to you, then place them in an evidence box, seal the lid, and cross your fingers that lightning strikes twice and a second secure evidence store burns to the ground.’

  ‘We really appreciate your help. It is a confusing case and it’s difficult to separate head and heart when it comes to our self-confessed young suspect.’

  ‘When fused, head and heart make up something called gut. Listen to what your gut tells you, Sergeant Evans, because it’s rarely wrong.’

  ‘I think he’s psychologically disturbed, but not a natural killer.’ She gave a thoughtful sigh. ‘I’m just not certain that his unhealthy obsession and his apparent memory losses haven’t pushed him into dangerous waters.’

  ‘Then keep him close, my dear. I couldn’t bear the thought of Françoise Thayer reaching back from the past to damage more innocent lives.’ He replaced his cup in its saucer and looked at her. ‘If the boy does turn out to be her son, would you let me know?’

  Marie stood up. ‘It’s the least I can do, sir.’ She picked up the package of notebooks. ‘Thank you again.’

  He walked with her to her motorbike. He stroked the shiny vivid green paintwork and murmured, ‘Beautiful. Really beautiful.’

  Marie nodded and understood immediately that there had been a beloved bike in the old man’s youth. She smiled at him. ‘What was it?’

  ‘A 350cc 1957 Matchless G3L, closely followed by a 1960s 600cc Triton.’

  ‘You were a café racer!’ Marie laughed out loud. ‘The Ace Café?’

  Hodder nodded and smiled warmly, and in that smile Marie saw an echo of the daring young man who had tried to coax the elusive “ton” from his bike as he raced from café to café.

  ‘Don’t tell a soul, but I still renew my membership in the ’59 Club.’

  ‘Good for you! Once a biker, always a biker.’ She pulled on her helmet. ‘Thanks again. We appreciate it.’

  ‘Stay safe,’ he said as she flicked on the electric ignition, ‘and remember, trust your gut, and keep him close.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘I’m always sorry to find someone butchered in a kitchen.’

  Jackman looked at the pathologist, and wondered what kind of man he was. He stared with undisguised distaste and said, ‘I’m not exactly keen on finding people butchered in any place.’

  ‘Mm, but in the kitchen it plays havoc with the tile g
rout. I often wonder how people manage to get rid of it.’ Jacobs seemed truly bemused by the homeowner’s predicament. ‘Carpet can be ripped up and replaced, but lovely expensive tiles like these, I mean they are top quality stone-effect porcelain. It’s such a shame.’

  Jackman didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  In front of them was a pretty woman in her thirties. Just a short while ago she must have been going about her daily life, feeling safe in her own home. Now she lay on what Jackman had just been informed was her porcelain tiled floor, her head caved in and slashed to ribbons by a sharp knife.

  ‘As there is no weapon here, and the wounds appear to be consistent with the other two deaths, I suspect we have a third murder by the same hand, Inspector.’ Jacobs seemed to have managed to drag his thoughts away from the possibility of steam cleaning grouting, and back to the victim. ‘But this is much more like the way he killed Alison Fleet than his manic attack on Julia.’

  Jackman saw the same clean cuts in the woman’s clothing. This time the skin beneath was creamy white, not slightly bronzed like Alison, and not decaying like Julia. This woman’s skin was reminiscent of pale Victorian porcelain. Jackman sighed.

  He stared for a long while at Sue Bannister, and had the same feeling he had had with Alison Fleet, that something was not right. There was that odd “arranged” aspect to the scene. What had Marie called it? Stage-managed. It was a display. He wished that Marie was with him, but the call had come in only a short while after she had left for Rutland and he had not told her about it. Jackman knew that Marie was an awesome rider, but he still thought it prudent not to fill her mind with the news of another violent death when she had a long trip ahead of her.

  Charlie Button stood in the doorway, looking green. Jackman knew that the kid was doing his best to observe dispassionately what he saw, but, as Max would have said, he was making a right dog’s dinner of it.

  Charlie hated the cloying metallic smell of congealing blood, but more than that, Jackman was aware that he also hated the injustice of it. The mere fact that someone had stolen a life that wasn’t his to steal made Charlie Button sick to his stomach. It also made him angry, totally determined to catching and seeing the offender punished.

  Jackman smiled sadly. One day Charlie would make a very good detective, but he had to learn how to deal with things like this. Not that it was easy. Of the four of them on the team, Jackman believed that only Marie had achieved a healthy, professional attitude towards death. She was by no means a hard woman, but somehow she had found a way to compartmentalise what she saw and what she felt. He thought about Max, and how he had cried because he couldn’t look death in the face.

  And what of himself? Jackman smiled inwardly. His way was to escape. When faced with the carnage that was such a part of his chosen career, he allowed his mind to slip back to his mother’s stables. He smelled fresh, warm hay and the heady, cloying stink of horse manure, and loved both. He heard the noise of the horses shuffling around and felt the smoothness of their coats beneath his hand. When sadness and chaos surrounded him, the stables reminded him that there were places in the world where there was peace. Where words were spoken softly and with kindness.

  ‘Have you spoken to the husband, Charlie?’

  ‘The doctor’s still with him, guv. Poor guy’s totally hysterical.’

  ‘He found her?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was late home from work apparently. Got the shock of his life.’

  ‘Stay here, Charlie. Talk to him as soon as he calms down. I need to get back and set a few things in motion.’

  ‘HOLMES?’

  Jackman nodded. He’d always thought the acronym for the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System was rather contrived, but the system was a lifesaver for managing a case of this nature and magnitude. And now they had HOLMES 2, which made it considerably easier for an SIO to control a serious crime investigation like a serial murder. Because, like it or not, Jackman now knew that this was what they had. The new HOLMES 2 system could handle massive sophisticated searches using cross-force information from multiple sources.

  The only problem was that the HOLMES operator worked from the subterranean area where Orac ruled. There was no escaping it, Jackman would have to go down there in person. He tried to fathom out why that woman reduced him to a quivering wreck whenever they met. As usual he came up with very little, other than the fact that Orac was so different from the people he normally dealt with that he had no idea how to treat her. She was like some exotic, multi-coloured bird in a cage full of sparrows. The last time they had needed to speak, Jackman had been almost incapable of stringing a sensible sentence together.

  Charlie broke his reverie. ‘Should we pull in Daniel Kinder, guv?’

  ‘It was the first thing I did when we took the shout. He might have a perfectly good alibi, and I hope he has, but right now, he’s still the main suspect.’ He nodded to Charlie. ‘I’ll see you back at the station when you’ve spoken to the husband.’

  As Jackman started his vehicle, his mobile rang. He touched the answer and loudspeaker buttons, and Max’s anxious voice filled the car. ‘The unit outside Skye Wynyard’s house say that Kinder’s done a runner. He had another of those weird fugue things, and now he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Shit! How the hell did he get past them?’

  ‘He legged it out the back, sir.’ Max sounded well pissed off. ‘As usual, it all comes down to bleeding funds. There are several rear and side routes out of Tavernier Court, and they don’t have the manpower to cover them all.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ muttered Jackman.

  ‘I’ve put out an all cars call to apprehend him, guv, and uniform are checking any places that he is known to frequent.’ He paused, then said, ‘Maybe we should go public? Get his face out there to the masses and ask for their help.’

  ‘And have a witch-hunt along with mass hysteria on our hands? Not yet, Max. There are no two words more threatening and terrifying to the public than “serial killer.” And if you suspect him to be on your own doorstep, then you can multiply the fear factor by a hundred. Just keep looking for him while I think this through.’

  He hung up and felt his chest tighten. Jesus! If they’d let Kinder go, and he’d killed again on the very night he was freed, they would all be looking for new jobs, and he, as SIO, would be hung out to dry. A picture of the stricken faces of his father and mother loomed, to be quickly replaced with that of Sue Bannister lying in a thick pool of blood on her expensive porcelain tiles.

  His eyes narrowed. Concentrate! No matter how hard he tried, Jackman just couldn’t see Kinder as a serial killer. Even the psychologist had said as much. No, they certainly needed to bring Kinder back in, but they must spread their net wider, and somehow catch whoever was doing this. No one was going to hang his team out to dry, not while he was still around.

  Jackman jammed his foot down and set off. He needed to get back to base and take hold of this case by the scruff of its neck, before it destroyed them all.

  * * *

  Lisa Hurley stared anxiously at Skye. ‘I hate to leave you like this, but I need to get back to work.’

  ‘You go. You’ve been brilliant, but there’s nothing we can do until they find him.’

  ‘You can have a key to my place. Use it as your own. When I finish work, maybe we can sort out some kind of plan.’

  Skye shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I need to be here, in case he comes home.’

  Lisa frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m not saying that he’d do anything to hurt you, but,’ she paused, ‘he’s certainly not himself, is he?’

  Skye hung her head. She could hardly disagree with that, could she? ‘Alright, I’ll wait until this evening, then I’ll go to your place — if you’re sure that’s okay?’

  Lisa reached into her bag, removed a set of keys and unhooked one from the ring. ‘Spare front door. Keep it until this is over.’ She touched Skye lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll see you later
.’ At the door she halted. ‘Ring me if he turns up or if the police find him, won’t you? Use the direct line to my office.’

  Skye nodded. Then she said, ‘Wait, Lisa. Maybe you should have a key for here too? With all this going on, I think I’d feel safer knowing that someone I trust was holding a spare key for me. If you don’t mind, that is?’

  Lisa smiled. ‘Of course I will. It makes sense.’

  Skye went into the kitchen and pulled open a small drawer in one of the units. After sifting through various odd keys she located a key fob shaped like a crescent moon with two shiny keys attached. She took it back to Lisa. ‘The front one is silver, and the bronzy one is for the kitchen.’

  Lisa put them in her bag, then checked her watch. ‘Gosh! Must fly. Ring me!’

  Skye nodded as the door closed behind the tall, efficient woman who had suddenly transformed from boss into guardian angel.

  She walked back into the kitchen and decided that what she needed was coffee. Her head felt as if it had been caught in a tornado. Things were happening all around her and she had no control over any of them. As the kettle boiled she heard her mobile ringing.

  ‘Skye, so sorry to bother you, but I was worried about you. The police have been to my unit again, and they say Daniel is missing.’

  ‘Mark?’ Skye tried to push away her disappointment that it wasn’t Daniel. ‘Yes. He was here last night, but he left this morning, and I’ve no idea where he went.’

  Dan’s friend, Mark Dunand, sounded as fraught as she was feeling. ‘What the hell’s going on? Why do they think Dan’s mixed up in a murder? He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’

  ‘We know that, Mark, but the police don’t, and no wonder. Dan’s been acting like a complete fruitcake. I’m worried sick about him.’

  ‘Me too.’ His voice became calm and he said, ‘I was wondering if you have half an hour to spare? I think we should put our heads together about Daniel. If he’s in deep shit, and I suspect he is, then I’d like to help.’