Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2), Page 2

  They left, went back down to Tom’s office and accepted mugs of coffee from Beth as they both worked the phones and jacked-up lines of inquiry.

  “I’ll get a car organised to take you home, Beth,” Matt said. “This could be a long haul.”

  Beth nodded. She knew that it was within the first few hours that a case like this was broken, if it was to be brought to a successful conclusion. The stats on the abduction of young girls made for grim reading. If it was a sexually motivated crime, then the culprit usually murdered his victim within six to ten hours of taking her. Kidnap with a view to extort money was a rarer occurrence, and would give them more room and time to manoeuvre. Still, the bottom line was that a third of those taken would never be seen again; a third recovered dead, and just a third returned safely. She knew that Ray Preston was au fait with historical facts, and that he and his wife would be going through a hell that she could not properly imagine.

  “Call me when you get a chance,” Beth said to Matt, giving him a peck on the cheek before picking up her coat and shoulder bag. “Don’t worry about a car. I’ll get a cab.”

  Matt reversed into a space just three doors up from the terrace house in Hornsey where Mark Ellis lived. Pete walked up the path, knocked on the door, then jumped back, startled by the immediate response of loud barking and the scrabbling of claws on wood.

  “Down boy,” a voice said, and silence followed. The door opened and Matt and Pete were faced by a slim man in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was blond, cut in a choppy pop-star style, that to Matt looked an uncombed mess. He wore a white crew-neck sweatshirt, cargo pants and moccasin-style slippers.

  “Don’t tell me. You two are Mormons on a mission, or coppers. Am I right, or am I right?”

  Pete flashed his warrant card. “You’re right. Are you Mark Ellis?”

  “The one and only. What can I do for you?”

  “Ask us in out of the cold,” Matt said, holding up his own ID for inspection. “Then assist us by answering a couple of questions.”

  Mark moved to the side and beckoned them in. “Don’t worry about Rembrandt,” he said, patting the head of the massive Rottweiler, that was now sat to attention eyeing Matt and Pete up with baleful, unblinking eyes. “He’s already eaten.”

  The small lounge they were led into was softly lit by a floor lamp with a red and blue faux-Tiffany shade. Abstract prints took up most of the wall space, and there was a stereo unit and attendant shelves packed tight with CDs.

  “Take a pew and give me my starter for ten,” Mark said, sitting on a well worn leather wing-back easy chair.

  Matt and Pete remained standing. Rembrandt loped into the room and took up a position in front of the seated teacher.

  “We believe you teach art at St Hilda’s School for Girls, Mr Ellis,” Matt said.

  “Yes. I’ve been on the staff for four years. But let me guess, you already know that. What’s all this about?”

  “We just need your help, sir. You may be able to shed some light in respect of a case we’re investigating.”

  “What case?”

  “Do you find that many of the girls become infatuated with you, sir?”

  “Uh…Well, yes, I suppose. Quite a few have the hots for me. But I somehow find the strength to fight them off.”

  Matt had taken an instant disliking to the man. He was conceited and had an annoying way of trying to be funny, as if he were doing stand-up at the Comedy Store. Some of it was undoubtedly nerves, but it grated all the same.

  “What time did you leave school this afternoon?” Pete said.

  “Four-fifteen. Do you mind my asking why my movements are of any interest to you lot?”

  “Just standard procedure, sir,” Matt said. “What make of car do you drive?”

  “None. I don’t drive. Will you get to the point, please?”

  “It has been brought to our attention that you are very friendly with one of the pupils; Laura Preston.”

  Mark shot to his feet, and Rembrandt began to growl. The dog was facing Matt with its haunches tensed and quivering, and its lips drawn back from teeth like steel nails, only inches from Matt’s crotch.

  “What the fuck has happened?” Mark said. “Why are you asking me about Laura?”

  The teacher was either a world-class actor, or had no idea what had gone down. His demeanour had changed in a second, and the colour drained from his face.

  “It is highly likely that Laura was abducted from outside school this afternoon,” Pete said.

  “And you think that I might have done it?” Mark said, his voice rising. “I told you, I left at four-fifteen. Fortunately, I was with the assistant head teacher, Ms. Carlisle. I walked her to the car park and we talked for maybe ten minutes. Does that period cover me?”

  “It would appear to, sir,” Matt said. “You realise that we have to check out every possible avenue. Do you have any idea of anyone at the school who would wish Laura harm?”

  “No, I do not. Why not start with the caretaker. It wouldn’t be the first time that one had taken girls and murdered them, would it? And be advised that any further interrogation will be in the presence of my solicitor, or won’t take place. I’m not responsible for the pubescent feelings that some of the girls might harbour for me. It goes with the patch.”

  Matt didn’t consider Ellis a viable suspect. Criminal Records had nothing on him. The young teacher had never had a brush with the law. Or hadn’t been caught in any wrongdoing.

  “What do you think, boss?” Pete said as they drove back into the city.

  “I thought that the Hound of the Baskervilles was going to rip my nuts off. And I think that Ellis is a wanker, but not involved in the girl’s disappearance. He’s just a poser. He no doubt gets off on having teenage girls drool over him. And he’s sharp. Probably knows we’ll check out all the staff, including the caretaker. We’ll have a word with this Ms. Carlisle he mentioned, but I reckon he’s a dead end.”

  “You think we might have another Ian Huntley type working at the school? Or that this was just a random snatch; a case of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “I don’t buy either, Pete. Laura was targeted. If some sicko is out predating, he picks a quiet location: woodland, country lanes, a park. This was mid-afternoon in a busy area, and with plenty of other people about. She was singled out.”

  “Why?”

  “Can I phone a friend on that? If...When we find out why, then we’ll have a trail to follow.”

  “It could have been a spontaneous act. The guy might have just seen her standing by herself, stopped and grabbed her.”

  “That doesn’t work, Pete. She’s a copper’s daughter. She wouldn’t have got into a van with a stranger. She either knew the driver, or there was two of them. One at the wheel, and another who dragged her on board.”

  “If she was the intended victim, then this has got to be more than it appears. It could be about her father.”

  “Right,” Matt said. “I’m sure that the link is Preston. My gut feeling is that we’re definitely looking for someone with a grudge. An ex-con maybe, who is out for revenge.”

  “So we need to dig up everyone that the chief has had a hand in putting away, and who is now back on the street.”

  “Yeah. I think we just worked out the why of this. All we need to know now is who.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAWN was breaking. Matt woke up in his office chair, slumped forward, arms cushioning his head on the desktop.

  “There you go, boss,” Pete said, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, amid the dozens of files that they had been working through.

  “Thanks. What time is it?” Matt said, sitting up, stretching, yawning, aching.

  “Seven o’clock. You lost the plot over an hour ago.”

  Matt ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt furry, and his mouth tasted the way a full bin bag smelled. He massaged his left leg, which was still weaker than the right. Having a bullet f
racture your femur will do that every time. He had been in a full leg cast for many weeks that summer. Now, the leg was all but back to normal, only a little less muscular than the other. The cold made it ache, though. There was still a steel rod and a bunch of screws inside that would cause airport metal detectors to go off the scale for the rest of his natural.

  Opening the bottom drawer of the desk, Matt withdrew a half bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, took a swig and sluiced it around his mouth, before swallowing the expensive blend and taking a sip of the hot coffee as a chaser.

  Standing, he went out into the corridor, smiled at Eileen – one of the cleaners who was wheeling her trolley out of the next office – and went into the loo. He took a leak, rinsed his face with cold water, and ran his wet fingers through his now grey-peppered blue-black hair.

  Back in the office, Matt felt marginally better. He had spoken to Ray Preston at midnight. Told the chief that he believed Laura’s abduction was in all probability directly linked to some nutter with revenge on his mind. Ray had come in from home and dug out every serious crime he had been involved with or headed up that had resulted in someone going down for a long stretch. He also gave a list of names; villains who had made threats. There was a lot to look at. Pete had sifted through the files and discarded all those of cons still doing time. He and Matt had then settled to try and zero in on probable offenders who were now back on the street. Preston had stayed till three a.m. and then returned home to his wife.

  Tom Bartlett came into the office at eight-thirty, accompanied by the chief, who looked as knackered as Matt felt.

  Matt shook his head as they both looked to him for a status report. “We’ve got the boards going, and the team are on it. There are four or five ex-cons who we need to eliminate. But nothing stands out. The best bet we had was Ted Roberts, the rapist you collared back in oh-two. He promised to settle up with you when he got out, chief, but he croaked three months ago.”

  “So show me who you’ve highlighted,” Ray said.

  It was a little after nine when DC Marci Clark knocked at the open office door.

  “Yeah, Marci,” Matt said.

  “I’ve got a letter, special delivery for the chief,” Marci said as she entered and handed it to Ray.

  They all knew. It was instinctive.

  “Get me some gloves,” Ray said.

  Pete went over to a four-drawer filing cabinet, rummaged for a few seconds and came back with a handful of cellophane gloves.

  Ray pulled a pair on with visibly shaking hands, then took the proffered letter opener from Matt and slit the top of the black envelope open, after first reading out loud what was hand-written on the front of it in gold: “Private and personal, for the attention of Detective Chief Superintendent Raymond Preston, New Scotland Yard.” He then turned it over. “There’s a drawing,” he said, holding it up to show the others. It was a small ten-pence-piece-sized sketch on the bottom right of the envelope. Nothing original. Just a smiley face with lines radiating out from a circle, and with two dots for eyes and an upward-turned slash for a mouth.

  With finger and thumb, Ray withdrew the contents, which was a single Polaroid photograph. He studied it, swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut and thrust it out towards Tom.

  “Oh, fuck!” Tom said, staring at the image of the naked girl, who although he did not recognise, knew must be the chief’s daughter. The newspaper in her lap was in sharp focus. It was dated the day before. On the back of the Polaroid was a yellow Post-it with a one-liner: ‘I’ll be in touch, Preston’.

  Matt pulled gloves on and took the photo from Tom. It was like pass the parcel. He studied it. In the gloom behind the girl was the shape of a mattress. The walls were whitewashed and flaky. On the concrete floor was a bucket. Matt felt a little heartened. This was not a random, sexually motivated crime. The girl was in a secure environment; a cellar? Yes. And the mattress and bucket implied that they had some time.

  “Who hates you enough to do this?” Matt said to Ray as he passed the photo to Pete.

  Ray took a deep breath. “You don’t make friends nicking bank robbers, rapists and murderers for over thirty years. You know that some of them take it personally. A percentage of them were mad or bad enough to do something like this, but I can’t think of any one scumbag in particular.”

  “Get the team moving on the ones we’ve highlighted, Pete,” Matt said. “And arrange for a trace on all incoming calls to the chief’s extension, his home phone and mobile. I think this piece of shit is going to want to gloat.”

  “What else can we do?” Ray said.

  The gears in Matt’s brain slipped into overdrive. “We get this evidence to Forensics, just in case there is any trace. Although I can’t imagine that they’ll find any of his latents, hair or fibres. Then we come up with a response to any call you might get.”

  “What do you think he wants, Matt?” Ray said.

  “His pound of flesh for the supposed wrong he believes you visited on him. I think he intends to punish you. To give you a little hope, then pull the carpet from under you.”

  “You expect him to...to kill Laura?”

  Matt took a deep breath and said, “Without a doubt. He may ask for a ransom, but I wouldn’t think he has any intention of releasing her. All we can do is play for time and find her before...”

  Ray was in the squad room when he got a call put through to him at four p.m. The voice was muffled, and there was a slight echo effect, as though the words were bouncing off the walls of an empty room.

  “You having a good day, Preston?”

  “I’ve had better,” Ray said, somehow manufacturing a calmness that belied his inner discomposure.

  There was a harsh laugh. “I’m on a stolen pay-as-you-go phone, cop. You won’t be able to trace this and get to me, so just listen. Laura is dead meat, unless you leave a hundred grand in unmarked notes at a place I’ll advise you of within the next twenty-four hours. Is there a problem with that?”

  “How do I know that Laura is still alive?” Ray said.

  Another laugh. Then his daughter’s voice, high-pitched and terror-filled. “Help me Daddy, please. Do what he says. I―”

  The call was terminated.

  Ray cupped his hands to his face. “Get the bastard,” he said. “Whatever it takes, bring him in, or take him down.”

  The next contact was found by Glenda Preston that evening. It was after eleven when she heard a knock at the door. She answered it, but no one was there. Kids, she thought. The garden gate was open. She turned to where Ray was standing in the hall, and only saw the package on the step from the corner of her eye as she closed the door. Pulling it back open, she knelt down and reached out to pick it up.

  “No!” Ray said, gripping her wrist. “Let me get it.”

  It was only the size of a cigarette packet. Not big enough in Ray’s mind to be any kind of bomb. But he knew it could be, and that he should call it in and get specialists to deal with it. But sometimes in life, you follow your instincts and gamble.

  He wore a cumbersome pair of Glenda’s Marigold gloves. Told her to stay out of the kitchen, and carefully opened the card that was taped to the red and green striped paper. ‘A gift for you’, the message read in what was now familiar gold handwriting.

  He unwrapped it, his spine flash freezing with the premonition of something that was still out on the far edges of his mind, making his scalp tighten with apprehension.

  The small maroon presentation box was of the type that a high-class jeweller might use to hold a fine necklace, bracelet, or maybe large earrings.

  Releasing the lid by pressing a stud, Ray made a strange keening sound as the top flipped back to reveal the macabre contents. Pinned to a cushion of velvet was a milky white finger, with blue-tinged nail and stump. Not just any finger, but one that bore the heart-shaped sapphire ring he and Glenda had bought Laura for her thirteenth birthday.

  Oh, Jesus fucking Christ! Someone had cut one of his little princess’s fingers of
f. Ray’s vision greyed. A farrago of emotions rocked him as he sank to his knees. It was so bad...So wrong. His eyes bulged in disbelief, even though he knew that what he saw was a reality and could not be denied.

  He drove back out of town in a state of euphoria. Felt as high as if he had been snorting coke all evening. The buzz was electric. He could imagine just how the copper and his wife would feel to be in receipt of their daughter’s digit. Delivering it to the door, then knocking and running away, had been rash but intoxicating. He had peeped from behind a neighbour’s beech hedge. Watched as the woman answered the door, and caught a glimpse of Preston as he bent down to unknowingly pick up a small piece of the lovely Laura. The icing on the cake would have been being able to see their faces on opening his little surprise package. But he could see it in his mind's eye. They would be totally fucking devastated, and yet would somehow accommodate the horror and hold on to the belief that they would be reunited as a family. Giving them a morsel of optimism was all part of the plan. He would build them up, then bring them crashing down like a spent wave against a cliff face. It was his brand of give-and-take, carrot and stick system, to derive maximum mileage out of suffering. It was not enough to just inflict physical pain. The psychological torture was far more satisfying. Laura Preston was just the unfortunate device to hit back at one of the people who had been responsible for his loss.

  Stopping, he got out and unlocked and removed the padlock from the hasp on the gates fronting the breaker’s yard, then drove through and across to park at the side of the house, before going back to secure the gates.

  There was no rush. He turned on the portable TV in the kitchen and then made himself a roast beef sandwich and poured a glassful of milk. It was almost an hour later when he went down to the cellar.