Senseless, page 5
‘Something bothering you?’ she asked.
‘What?’ he said, before realising he had heard her. ‘No,’ he lied, not wanting to share all of his thoughts just yet. ‘It’s nothing. Where’s the fiancé?’ he asked, turning to Tuttle.
‘At home,’ Tuttle answered. ‘With the family liaison officer.’
‘How’s he doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m told he’s still in shock,’ Tuttle explained. ‘Understandable. Be a while before he’s fit to be interviewed.’
‘Not sure I can wait that long,’ he insisted. ‘We’ll go see him on the way back to the Yard.’
‘It’s your show,’ Tuttle said, giving an exaggerated shrug.
‘Where’s the body now?’ he asked.
‘Been moved to the mortuary at Guy’s Hospital,’ Tuttle explained.
‘Guy’s?’ he questioned. ‘I would have thought she would have been taken to Roehampton or Charing Cross. Somewhere in West London.’
‘All our victims go to Guy’s,’ Jones informed him. ‘We have an arrangement with the pathologist there, Doctor Canning. He does all SIU post-mortems. He’s become a bit of an expert in this sort of crime.’
‘If it means less travelling from the Yard, then I’m happy,’ Jameson told her as he took one last look around. ‘Okay, Sally. We’re done here. Let’s go see the fiancé.’ He turned to Tuttle. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ Tuttle said, waving it away. ‘Just catch the bastard.’
‘We will,’ Jameson assured him. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’
‘It’s always just a matter of time, Inspector,’ Tuttle told him. ‘But if more victims start turning up, the powers that be won’t see it that way and neither will the media or public.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ Jameson agreed. ‘I know how this works.’
Geoff Jackson focused the high-powered lens that was attached to his camera until the image of the two detectives trudging back to their car was sharp and clear. The automatic shutter clicked repeatedly as he took a long series of photographs, but even after he was sure he had enough shots he kept the camera fixed on the couple, using it as a telescopic lens while he considered what he was looking at. He knew the woman well enough – DS Sally Jones from the SIU, but who was the new guy? His instinct told him he had the look of someone in charge, but the SIU already had a leader, so who was this? He pulled the camera back inside his car and looked at the picture of the two detectives on the small screen. ‘A changing of the guard?’ he asked out loud to no one. He’d heard rumours through his police contacts that the top man at SIU was thinking of quitting, but he hadn’t believed it, such was DCI Corrigan’s obsession with the job, but perhaps he’d been wrong to dismiss the rumours.
He was feeling very pleased that his plan to stake out the scene, albeit from a safe distance, had been so successful. As soon as he heard about the murder, he was sure the SIU would turn up to take over, although he expected to see Corrigan’s frowning face, not this purposeful but haunted-looking man. But for all the detective’s newness, there was something about him that looked somehow familiar, although he couldn’t place him. Something from the recent past, but he just couldn’t remember where or what from. Not yet. He vowed to find out everything he could about the newcomer and that once he knew who he was dealing with, he may even introduce himself, like only he knew how. He tossed the camera onto the passenger seat and slipped into the traffic and away.
Martin Thomas walked across the grass-covered clifftop in Kent, heading towards the two men he could see standing together, both wearing suits, hard hats and high-vis jackets. He played the part to a degree by wearing a sleeveless high-vis top, but no helmet, which he found almost unbearably constricting, as if they suffocated his already diminished senses to the point where he could hardly feel the world that surrounded him. He reached the men, both of whom he knew from working with the same company as they did for several years now. As always, their strikingly similar appearance made him wonder if they were in fact one person somehow split into two versions of themselves. Both were white, middle-aged, relatively short and overweight with ruddy complexions. He assumed they even sounded like each other, although he’d never actually heard their voices. They shook hands without the need for introductions and engaged in the usual tortuous small talk before getting down to business.
The slightly fatter of the men dominated the conversation, pointing into the near distance at the on and offshore wind turbines that span like slow-moving, giant alien spacecraft, before indicating to the very land they were standing on, that had been earmarked for an expansion of the wind farm. What they didn’t know was that he couldn’t hear a word they were saying, although he understood everything. He’d been careful to position himself so he could always see their lips – reading all they said, as he’d always been able to do since he was a young child. His state-of-the-art hearing aids remained in his pocket, as they often did. He often found the noise of the world that they piped into his ears disorientating and preferred the silence – especially if he was in a particularly noisy location, such as a wind farm with dozens of turbines – not to mention the pounding noise of the wind crashing over the cliffs. His deafness could bring him peace, no matter where he was. There were many sounds he longed to hear, but not fed through an electronic device. It was better to see the sounds with his eyes and let his mind translate them into something wonderful that allowed him to feel something instead of being stuck in a dark vacuum – devoid of normal human emotions. To feel was his route to the world he so longed to join. He was sure of it.
His colleagues chatted away to him as he perfectly read their lips, answering when it was required, but mostly he just nodded – a section of his mind genuinely concentrating on their conversation – taking in everything that was said to the degree where he would remember every word – even months later, despite the fact that only about ten per cent of his conscious self was still with them. The rest had left – gone back to the day of the killing as he replayed every second of it in his mind and all the feelings it had opened the doors to that he’d never felt before. But there was no way another person could tell so much of him was somewhere else in time and spirit, such was his learnt ability to function totally normally despite so much of him being elsewhere. It was something he’d been practising for years – since he was a young teenager. It was a skill that had served him well and meant he could escape any mundane or even threatening situation into the safety of his imagination. Although now he was able to replace imagination with memories. He’d first used it to mentally flee from the well-meaning chats with the staff and counsellors in his care home during their futile attempts to understand him. He left just enough of him with them to convincingly answer their questions and even engage in conversational niceties, whilst most of him was actually far, far away in a world they would never inhabit or understand. Not that it mattered to him, although sometimes, when he saw them laughing or crying or growing truly angry, he couldn’t help but feel jealous of the human feelings they possessed that he knew he did not. Feelings that had been beaten out of him before he was even five years old. It was in moments like that he’d felt a cold chill of what was for him the closest thing to fear he could ever experience run up his spine as he doubted both what he was and what he wasn’t before retreating into his darkest thoughts that he wrapped around himself like warm, soft yet impenetrable armour.
He watched their lips moving silently as they formed words, but most of him watched the woman’s lips thinning as her mouth grew wide – screaming in pain and fear. A warmth washed over him and for a moment he wondered if this feeling was something close to happiness.
Jameson and Jones approached the home of the victim in Hayes – neither saying much as they considered the unpleasant task ahead. Jones eventually broke the silence. ‘You sure you want to do this now?’ she asked. ‘He’s already with a family liaison officer. We could give it a couple of days.’
‘No,’ he said, turning down her offer. ‘The sooner I see him for myself the better.’
‘You sound like you’re considering him as a suspect,’ Jones told him.
‘Husbands. Partners. They should always be considered as suspects until we can rule them out,’ he reminded her. ‘You know that.’
‘I know,’ she agreed, ‘but not a serious suspect. Not in a case like this.’
‘In all cases,’ he insisted, without really believing it. ‘I just want to see him. If he comes across okay, then at least I’ll know.’
‘Is that what the scene visit was about?’ she asked. ‘So you could get some sort of a feel for things? To get into the killer’s mind. Think like he thinks?’
‘No,’ he replied flatly. ‘I can’t do that. Last place I want to be is inside this fucker’s mind. Although I do need to understand his mind to help find him. But I don’t need to think like him to know why he does what he does. I just need to work out why he thinks the way he does.’
‘Fine,’ said Jones, backing off. ‘It’s just your predecessor was a bit of a one for understanding what made killers like this tick. He had some strange talent for it too. Had the knack of pulling a rabbit out of the hat when we really needed it. I saw him work out things that the rest of us never could.’
‘Lucky him,’ Jameson said, shaking his head disbelievingly. ‘Well, I can’t do that. My background is in anti-terrorism. I’m an everyday detective. I gather the evidence and hope it leads to the suspect’s front door and usually it does. If I can come up with a few ideas that speed that up, then all the better.’
There were a few seconds’ silence before Jones spoke again. ‘Well, all that’s just fine,’ she told him. ‘Only then why did Addis hand-pick you to take over? Why would he hand-pick a by-the-numbers detective to take over the SIU? Doesn’t sound like the sort of thing he’d do.’
‘Who knows.’ Jameson shrugged. ‘He offered me the job – I took it.’
‘But you were in New Zealand,’ she reminded him in an accusing tone. ‘Did something happen in New Zealand that made…?’
‘I was on the Serious Crimes Unit there,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘We mainly took down shit armed robbery crews. Cowboys looking to earn enough cash to buy their next meth hit. Nothing spooky, Sally.’
‘Mainly,’ she said, jumping on his slip. ‘Mainly armed robbery. But not only.’
The satnav suddenly started chirping – telling them that they’d reached their location – saving him from any more of Jones’s questions.
‘We’re here,’ he seized on it. ‘Number twelve.’
Jones pulled over and tossed the vehicle’s logbook in the window to ward off any traffic wardens before they both climbed from the car, crossed the pavement and walked along the short pathway that led to the smart front door of the pristine terraced home. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ Jameson whispered and rang the doorbell before stepping back. They heard footsteps approaching a few seconds before the door was opened by an athletic-looking man in his mid-thirties, wearing a grey suit. They immediately knew what he was and he they, but they went through the introductions anyway. ‘DI Jameson,’ he explained, flipping open his warrant card. ‘SIU.’
‘DS Sally Jones,’ she followed.
‘DC Dan Robson,’ the detective answered, without showing any ID. ‘Southwest MIT. Family Liaison Officer until you swap me for one of your own.’
‘No,’ Jameson told him. ‘You won’t be being swapped out. Only makes it more difficult for the victim’s relatives. You’ll be working with us until I say differently.’
‘Fine by me,’ Robson agreed. ‘I suppose you’re here to see her fiancé?’
‘Yes,’ Jameson confirmed.
‘He’s in the kitchen,’ Robson told them as he stepped aside to allow them to enter, keeping his voice down. ‘I think he’s still in shock – hasn’t really taken in what’s going on.’
‘Understandable,’ Jones said. ‘It hasn’t been long.’
‘No,’ Robson agreed. ‘Not long at all. You’d better follow me.’ He turned and headed through the house followed by Jameson and Jones, until they reached a smart, shiny, modern kitchen that sharply contrasted the mood of the occasion. It had been designed for cheer and entertaining – not discussing a young woman’s murder. Such a conversation had no place here, yet here they were.
‘Paul,’ Robson said to the man sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of something in front of him, looking out of the French windows into the garden in a daze, making him turn his head towards them with not even a flicker of registration of their existence. ‘These detectives are from a special investigation team,’ he explained, as if he was speaking to a child. ‘They’ll be taking over the case. They specialise in this sort of investigation.’
‘I’m DI Jameson, Mr Waite,’ Jameson told him. ‘DC Robson is right. This is the sort of case we specialise in. My team is very experienced. It gives us the best chance of finding whoever did this to Lucy.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Waite replied – barely audible and disinterested – his eyes glassy with misery and disbelief – trapped in a nightmare he’d never wake from. ‘But I don’t understand,’ he pleaded. ‘Why Lucy? Why would anyone want to do this to Lucy? She was a good person. A beautiful person.’
‘I don’t know.’ Jameson sighed. ‘We may never know why, but what’s important is to find him, and to do that I need to ask you some questions. I know this isn’t the best time and it won’t be easy, but it’s really important you answer my questions as best you can.’
‘Okay,’ Waite quietly replied while nodding slowly. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘The day Lucy went missing,’ Jameson began. ‘When she went running. Were you at home?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, looking a little surprised by the question. ‘I already told DC Robson that.’
‘I just need to go through it,’ Jameson explained, trying to sound casual. ‘So, you were at home. Did you know where she was going?’
‘Of course,’ he answered tiredly. ‘She went running at that time most days and she had her gear on.’ He slowly reached out to a small bowl on the table that contained several pieces of jewellery. ‘She always took her rings off before going,’ he explained. ‘She said she’d be back soon.’ He picked the engagement ring out of the bowl and stared at it before it disappeared into his clenched fist.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jameson told him before taking a breath and pushing on. ‘Did you know where she was going running?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Of course. She always went running in Langley Park. She said there were always plenty of people around. It made her feel safe.’
‘Did you know where she went running in the park?’ he asked. ‘Exactly what route she took?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, looking a little confused. ‘I… I never went with her. Running’s not my thing.’
‘And when did you start thinking something could be wrong?’ Jameson persisted.
‘Well,’ Waite tried to recall through the fog of his confusion, ‘I suppose about a couple of hours after she went out. She was never gone for more than an hour.’
‘But it took you a couple of hours to notice?’ he pressed him.
‘No,’ Waite tried to retaliate. ‘That’s not what I said. It would have been about an hour after I expected her back that I began to be concerned.’
‘An hour?’ he asked, allowing himself to sound a little suspicious of what Waite was saying.
‘I was busy,’ Waite explained, sounding flustered. ‘I was working. I didn’t notice the time and when I did I tried to call her, but her mobile went to answerphone. I tried several times, but she never answered. I knew something was wrong. I don’t know how. I could just feel it.’
‘So what did you do?’ he asked.
‘I… I called a couple of her friends,’ Waite answered. ‘I thought maybe Lucy had bumped into them or something and decided to go for a coffee, but they hadn’t heard from her. Then I called her mum, which was a stupid thing to do. Now she was panicking too. I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘Then what?’ he continued, ignoring Waite’s pain.
‘I was so concerned by then that I called the police and reported her missing,’ he told them. ‘They said they’d make a note of it on their system, or whatever, but that it was too soon to officially report her as missing.’
‘We usually wait twenty-four hours before reporting non-vulnerable adults as missing,’ Jones explained. ‘The vast majority of people turn up safe and sound.’
‘That’s what they said,’ Waite snapped at her a little, before his eyes sank down towards the table. ‘Only she didn’t, did she?’
‘No,’ Jameson admitted. ‘No, she didn’t.’ He waited a few seconds before continuing, ‘So you reported it to the police?’
‘Tried to,’ Waite reminded him.
‘Before going to the park to look for her yourself?’ he said, accusing him.
‘I… I didn’t want to leave the house,’ Waite offered as an explanation. ‘In case she came home and couldn’t get in. She didn’t take her keys.’
‘Your fiancée was missing and you didn’t want to leave the house in case she came home?’ Jameson ramped up the questioning. ‘Surely you wanted to go and look for her?’
‘No. I mean yes,’ Waite replied, increasingly confused. ‘I did go looking for her. Later. When she still hadn’t come home. I walked the route she would have probably taken and then searched the park, but I couldn’t find her. So I went home and kept calling around her friends and people from her work, but nobody had heard anything from her. When it got late – when it got dark – I phoned the police again and asked them to look for her. They said they’d let their patrols know to look out for her, but still couldn’t officially report her as missing.’
