Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

He slumped behind his desk and snatched up Jerry’s black totebag and took out Steph’s Agatha Christie book. The bookmark was still there at the page he’d inscribed for her. The throbbing in his head was a drum-beat. He felt as if Steph herself was communicating with him.

He looked at the bit about times of services and the invitation to ‘join us and be joyful’. Then he noticed the words printed along the bottom edge. It was the credo of the Hosannah Church. We believe in the power of prayer, the sanctity of life and the Lord’s commandments.

The sanctity of life.

T wice he lifted the phone and twice he put it down. He could not be certain. Not one hundred per cent. He needed Paloma’s help if it was true that her son had killed five people and was about to kill a sixth.

He didn’t believe she knew Jerry was a murderer. Mothers can forgive and excuse almost anything, but the Paloma he knew couldn’t bottle up such knowledge. The pressure would be unstoppable.

Without realising why it was so vital, she might say where he was holding Martin Steel. She probably knew the places where Jerry hung out, where he relaxed and spent time alone. From childhood on, we find our hideaways, the sanctuaries where we escape for a time and brood and dream: garden sheds, garages, basements, attics, derelict buildings, caves. Somewhere like this must have been used to house the victims until they were despatched.

His hand moved towards the phone again. His duty to help that innocent man outweighed all personal considerations. But how would he tell Paloma what he suspected? You can’t wrap it up in kind words. It’s still devastating. His fingers bunched.

The phone wouldn’t do. This needed to be face to face.

He got up and stepped into the incident room.

Leaman looked up. ‘Guv, I’ve got the dope on Christine Twining. She went to a private clinic called the Sheridan, up near the university at Widcombe.’

‘Get onto them, then, and see if they have any record of Jocelyn.’

‘What about patient confidentiality?’

‘The patients are dead.’ If nothing else, his brain was working again. ‘John, I need to check something. I’ll be twenty minutes, maximum. You’re in charge. Any big news, call me at once.’ He scribbled his mobile number on a memo pad.

Leaman said, ‘Guv, would you do me a favour?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Turn the bloody thing on.’

After crossing Churchill Bridge to join the roundabout he drove under the viaduct where Danny had been hanged. He knew this killer never used the same place twice, but he couldn’t resist a glance upwards.

Nothing.

Nothing except that a transit van to his right almost veered into him. The brakes screeched. His own fault. In this mental state he shouldn’t have been driving. The van driver thought the same and pounded his horn.

Good thing the roads south of the river were less busy. He got to Paloma’s just before eleven. The lights were on. No other car was on the drive.

He reached for the doorbell and then hesitated. Instead, he stooped and found the key under the mat. Anything that would soften this blow was worth doing.

He let himself in. ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ was playing in the room she used as a living room. Words she’d written in that first letter came back to him, the list of things she said she had in common with him. Rock music was among them. He took a deep breath, spoke her name and pushed open the door.

The Stones were playing to an empty room.

The kitchen, then. Maybe she was getting something to eat.

Lights on. Kettle faintly warm. Two of the Hosannah bags on a hook behind the door. She’d unpacked her shopping. Where was she?

He called to her again and tried two other large rooms downstairs.

A petrifying thought gripped him. What if Jerry had been by and attacked his own mother to silence her?

‘Paloma, are you there?’

No response.

Heart pounding his chest wall, he ran up that fancy staircase to the landing where her bedroom was.

The bedroom door was shut. He put his ear to it and listened.

Nothing. Turned the doorknob and looked inside. Dark. He touched the light switch and let out a slow breath on finding she wasn’t lying dead.

A movement in his own pocket made him start. The damned mobile was vibrating. He put it to his ear and listened.

‘Guv?’

Leaman.

‘What’s up?’

‘I thought you’d want to know. We’ve now checked all three women and they had the terminations at different hospitals. Christine Twining at the Sheridan, like I said. Delia at the RUH. And Joss Steel at another private place, the King Steven, at Prior Park. She was living in London at the time, but she must have come down here for privacy.’

He was silent, but his brain was racing.

‘Are you there, guv?’ Leaman said. ‘It knocks our theory on the head, doesn’t it? The killer can’t be a medical professional unless he kept changing his job.’

‘Right,’ he said, more to himself than Leaman. His worst suspicions had taken root. The medical professionals might be in the clear, but what of a volunteer visiting a different hospital each evening of the week?

He couldn’t let personal loyalty subvert his duty.

Decision time.

‘John, I want you to bring a man in for questioning. His name is Jeremy Kean and he lives in Cavendish Mansions, up at Laura Place. We want prints, DNA, his clothes and we’ll need a search warrant.’

‘Now?’

‘At once. And send a car to the Hosannah Church on Green Park Road in case he’s there. Have it searched. He could be holding Steel there.’

So much for Jerry. But what of his mother?

Her study, or whatever she called it — the place where she kept her library of costume designs — was at the far end of the landing.

Again he hesitated at the door. Called her name and repeated it.

Not a sound came back.

He went in. The lights were on, but she wasn’t there. In dread of what he would find, he crossed the room and opened the door between the shelves.

Paloma was sitting at her computer wearing earphones. She looked up, smiled and removed them.

‘Some notes I recorded and wanted on file,’ she said. ‘Peter, what a wonderful surprise. I didn’t expect you so soon after what you said on the phone.’

He had an urge to wrap his arms round her before he said a word, but he remained in the doorway. ‘Still on duty, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t be. You’re look ghastly.’

‘Has Jerry been here?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Have you spoken to him since we were at his flat?’

‘On the phone, you mean? No, I haven’t. What’s this about, Peter?’ She caught her breath. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘Nothing like that.’ He stared at her for a moment in silence and then shook his head. ‘Paloma, I wish there was a way of breaking this gently.’

Her hand went to her mouth. ‘He’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

‘He could be. When you were shopping did he say what his plans are for this evening?’

‘I didn’t ask. It’s always one hospital or another with the books, but that’s early. He should be home by now unless there’s another church meeting.’

‘If there is, he’s in the clear.’

‘What do you mean — “in the clear”? You don’t have to be so mysterious.’

He took a step towards her, suffering with her, hating what he had to tell her, wanting to take her in his arms and promise everything would be all right, he’d make it right, whatever happened. But the policeman inside him was adamant. You don’t conduct yourself like that. You hold your emotion in check.

He moistened his lips. A muscle was twitching at the edge of his mouth. ‘That evening when I first came here, after the meal we had in the Italian restaurant, I talked about my marriage to Steph and the miscarriages and we got on the subject of abortion.’