Paul Finch - Stalkers

‘Heck …’

‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’

‘ Heck!’

He clamped his mouth shut.

‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘I read your comparative-case-analysis. You know … the one you left in my in-tray and covered with red marker pen “More urgent than anything else you’re doing today!” I’m fully aware why you fingered these particular cases and clumped them together. But it’s still too thin. Apart from the circumstantial stuff, there’s no evidence of abduction, let alone abduction by the same individual.’

‘So what are we doing here? Why are we having breakfast together?’

For a few moments, Gemma looked as if she didn’t know. She pushed her plate aside, even though it was still full. ‘Tell me about this new lead you’ve got. The one you mentioned yesterday morning.’

‘Oh, yeah … that.’

She jabbed a warning finger. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that was a lie!’

‘It wasn’t, don’t worry. Look … you go through to the incident room. I’ll finish getting dressed.’

While Heck got dressed properly, Gemma took their dirty dishes into the kitchen, scraped them and shoved them into the dishwasher, before drifting through to his so-called incident room. She peered again at the faces ranked on its far wall. So often in her career, she’d perused photographs of victims of violent crime. On first viewing, they nearly always enraged and appalled her. Only later on was she able to click into ‘professional investigator’ mode, and treat them as just another part of the job.

As she’d insisted several times, there was no guarantee that this particular bunch actually were victims, but somehow, seeing them all together like this, linked if nothing else by so much painstaking analysis, she began to suspect that they probably were , and it had a melancholy effect on her. In almost all cases, they were smiling or laughing, having been photographed among friends and loved ones. The majority were family snapshots, taken on holiday or at functions. How happy they’d all been while posing for these pictures, how bright their world had seemed. How terrified they’d have been to know the darkness that awaited them.

Heck reappeared in jeans, pulling on a sweater.

‘Well?’ she asked.

He started sifting through papers. ‘I actually had two new leads I was going to run with.’ He found a bulging buff folder, checked it was the right one, and then sat on the desk, indicating that she could have the chair. ‘First of all,’ he said, opening the folder, ‘you accept that in some force areas these disappearances were treated as abductions?’

‘Which is why they were passed to us.’

He nodded. ‘Two summers ago down in Brighton, a lady called Miranda Yates dropped out of sight while loading shopping into the boot of her car. Both the car, which was left with its boot open — I’m guessing the abductor hadn’t closed it properly and the wind caught it — and the car park, were treated as crime scenes. This photograph was taken later in the day.’

He handed Gemma a glossy, which depicted a mass of bystanders held back by police tape. She assessed it. It was common practice to take covert photographs of crime scene onlookers. Astonishing as it seemed to police officers, some perpetrators actually did return to see if anyone was appreciating their handiwork.

‘Which face are we looking at?’ she asked.

Heck pointed out a young man in the front row. He was in his early twenties, with neatly combed dark hair. His vacant expression was not wholly visible because he was turning slightly, plus he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Aside from that, the only noticeable thing about him was his slightly overlarge forehead.

‘I’ve sent copies of this to every local intelligence officer in England and Wales, and it’s a non-starter,’ Heck said. ‘As his features are partly obscured, no facial recognition has been possible thus far. But have a good look at him, and now check this other photo.’ He produced a second glossy, also depicting a crowd, though on this occasion gathered against a row of skeletal trees. ‘This was taken in Aberystwyth last March. Julie-Ann Netherby, a student at the university, was last seen in the basement of her hall of residence, doing her laundry. This picture was taken outside the hall, the following day.’

Gemma scanned the picture and almost immediately spotted someone who might have been the same man. Even less of this second chap’s face was visible — he was standing behind someone else, but aside from having shorter hair and a thin, wispy moustache, he was undoubtedly similar. He even had the same prominent forehead.

‘I suppose it looks like him,’ she said.

‘Agreed, but I know what you’re going to say. It isn’t definitely him.’ Heck took the photos back and filed them. ‘I admit this one’s a long shot. At present I’m referring to him as “the Kid”. He’s a suspect, but until we find out who he is — and all enquiries at the uni drew a blank — there isn’t much more we can do on that.’

‘So what’s the other lead?’

Heck dug out three more photographs. ‘Do you remember in one of my previous reports when I mentioned a suspect called Shane Klim?’

Gemma nodded. ‘The sex offender from Birmingham?’

‘Correct. Let me refresh your memory. Last January, a Newcastle estate agent called Kelly Morgan failed to report for work and subsequently wasn’t seen again. What really bothered the other girls in her office was that a couple of times over the previous weeks, she’d said that she thought someone was stalking her. She’d only seen him in daytime, and initially thought he was a jogger. But when she kept on spotting him, in different parts of the city, she became concerned. She said he was heavily built and that he always wore a hood. That in itself proves nothing of course. However, if you recall, a hooded figure was also captured on CCTV passing the front door of Annette Connor’s house in Liverpool. She disappeared a year last April. Here’s the still.’

Gemma checked it out. It was a black and white image-capture, very grainy, clearly taken at night. It showed a bulky man, wearing a dark leather jacket and, underneath that, a hoodie top with the hood pulled up. He was only photographed side-on as he strolled head down along the pavement.

She shrugged. ‘And I’ll say again what I said last time — that could be anyone.’

Heck nodded. ‘Could be. Probably a million men walk past that house every year. But remember Margaret Price, another one who disappeared doing the shopping? She was one of our South London girls, and she’d also confided in a friend that someone had recently alarmed her. She was coming home from work one misty autumn night, when she saw a man jogging past her house. She thought it was strange because he didn’t seem the jogging type — he had a heavy build and was puffing hard. Apparently, he was wearing a hood. And a horror mask.’

Gemma sighed. ‘Not this again …’

‘It’s important, ma’am,’ Heck said. ‘Margaret Price glimpsed his face as he passed, and he was wearing a horror mask. At least that’s what she thought.’

‘And if I recall correctly,’ Gemma said, ‘your contention was that it wasn’t a horror mask? You wondered if it was his actual face. First of all, Heck, we haven’t got a statement from this Margaret Price — so it’s all hearsay. Secondly, it was almost Halloween, so if it was a horror mask, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Thirdly, we’ve discussed this already …’