Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

The female officer who, earlier in the investigation, had wondered if Polly was planning to travel with anyone, said, 'Polly Mather was about to embark on a round-the-world trip — as far as we know, on her own. I've checked her property inventory and there's no sign of a passport, which seems strange. Is it worth checking to see if the other victims' passports are missing too?'

'With which line of enquiry in mind?' McCloughlin demanded.

'I don't know,' she shrugged. 'It was just a thought.'

He nodded at her. 'Go for it. Let me know what you find. What we have to establish is the link between our three victims — and there has to be one. So we'll be widening the circle of enquiry; in addition to friends and family, we'll be getting statements from all colleagues and other associates. I also want their exact movements over the last seven days mapped out — where they've been, how they got there, who they went with. I want everywhere they visited covered: shops, pubs, cinemas, even toilets. I can't emphasize how important more haste, less speed is on this one. Work quickly everyone, but with total concentration. We've got to find the thread that links them together before another body shows up. Oh and one other thing.' Self-consciously he began adjusting his tie. 'I'm doing a TV interview tonight, some details to stop the press piranhas going into a total frenzy. I'll use it to appeal for information from anyone who has had someone suspicious or unusual knock on their door, trying to gain entry to their house. It might throw up something interesting.' As the outside enquiry team queued up at the allocator's desk to receive their next action, Jon lingered at the white boards, staring at the photographs once again.

'Not bad, not bad at all.'

The voice took him by surprise and he was smiling before he'd turned his head. 'Hi, Nikki.' He looked down at her. 'You don't think I just made a total twat of myself?'

She didn't patronize him with a blank denial. 'OK, there were a few holes in your theory. But at least you're thinking around the problem. Who else had the balls to air any sort of a theory?'

'You mean who else was thick enough to spout off with a half-baked hunch? Still, what brings you to the incident room?'

She looked around. 'Central heating. Do you realize how crap my fan heater is at warming up that draughty bloody caravan they've given me?'

Jon grinned, feeling the familiar urge to give her a hug. 'So, apart from thawing out, what else are you up to?'

Nikki continued in a more businesslike tone. 'Actually, I'm just dropping off the plan-drawer's pictures. Then I'm back over to my office to look at getting the crime scene painted with ninhydrin.'

Jon knew that, although ninhydrin showed up fingerprints, it also destroyed more fragile forms of evidence. As a result, it was usually the very final stage in the forensic examination. 'Are we calling it a day, then?'

'Well, unless you've got any other particular tests in mind. But there's not much for us to go on. No blood splatters, no broken locks, windows or wrecked furniture that could have caught on clothing or scratched skin. In fact, the only promising thing we've removed are a few fibres from the upholstery. I'm talking to the other CSMs in the hope they might find more of the same in the property of the other victims.'

'What are they like? These fibres.'

'I'd say they were pure wool. A sort of pale green. Perhaps from a suit; it's hard to say.'

'Fair enough. Well, I'd better go over and see what my next task is. I'll see you around.'

'All right,' answered Nikki brightly. 'But remember, if you want a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, don't hang around. I'll not be in my caravan for much longer.'

*

DCI McCloughlin's interview was the lead story for Granada News and not far behind in the national bulletins. He gave the usual limited information about the three victims, then aired his concern that the killer, or killers, appeared to be gaining access to his victims' homes without any sign of a struggle.

'Therefore, I would like to hear from anyone who has had someone call at their house, probably first thing in the morning, with an unusual or unconvincing reason for doing so. Perhaps you've turned such a person away because they were unable to show you a proper ID card, or they were offering a product or service that seemed bogus. If you've had such a call we urge you to phone us immediately.'

In his daughter Liz's flat the old man sat directly in front of the TV screen, several empty bottles of Guinness now on the table beside the armchair. She was upstairs, completing some designs for a presentation on Monday morning. As DCI McCloughlin finished his appeal, holding the camera with an earnest gaze, Liz's father let out a slow, rasping snore.

August 2002

Tom came to with a start, unsure if it was the sound of his own snores or the rain battering down on his head that had awoken him.

He didn't know if it was something to do with air being blown in off the Irish Sea, then rising and cooling on reaching the Peak District, but downpours in Manchester were a way of life.

Normally the rain was consistent in its intensity — a never-ending sheet of fine drops that managed to soak their way through outer layers of clothing in no time. But occasionally the skies really opened up, releasing a barrage of droplets that bordered on tropical in their heaviness.

This was such a downpour.

Slumped in a chair on the patio, Tom focused on the TV through the French windows, drips catching in his eyebrows, falling in a steady stream from his nose, running down his legs and into his shoes. The dancers in the closing ceremony at the Commonwealth Games stadium tried to keep their movements synchronized as they splashed and slipped through the puddles of water.

Despite the rain, the temperature was pleasantly warm. With a movement so deliberate he could only be exceptionally drunk, Tom held the whisky bottle up. He considered whether to replace the top: he didn't want any rain watering it down.

He'd given up trying to ring Charlotte's mobile. For the first few days after their argument it went onto answerphone every time he called. Then the number went dead and he realized she must have moved to another one.

Slowly he raised the bottle to his lips, sucked down a great mouthful and decided the drink wasn't suffering. Turning his eyes back to the screen, he watched as the Queen was escorted to her place, attendants struggling to keep umbrellas over her. After another hour or so, the firework display began. Tom watched the screen, seeing the rockets taking off in a Mexican wave around the rim of the stadium. Then, tilting his head to the night sky, he watched the flickering lights bouncing off the low-lying cloud, water coursing down his chin, snaking in rivulets across his bare chest and wildly racing heart.

The next day he remembered that Charlotte's parents, Martin and Sheila, had moved to the Cotswolds in the weeks after he had married their daughter. He and Charlotte had met up with them in a restaurant with the surprise news that they had got married. It was an announcement that provoked only tight smiles and forced words of congratulation. He sensed the distance between the couple and their daughter, as if they'd resigned themselves to the fact that their little girl had chosen a path in life of which they didn't approve but dared not criticize.

On the internet he went to the directory enquiries web site, typed in their details and geographic location. The search threw up five possibilities and Tom found them on his fourth call.

'Hello, it's Tom Benwell here. 'A pause followed, long enough to force him into saying, 'Your daughter's husband?'

The information finally clicked and Sheila exclaimed, 'Tom! Oh how silly of me to get mixed up. How are you and Charlotte? Everything OK I hope?'