Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Jack nodded. ‘I’ll see her this afternoon.’
‘Well, she could give the police very little last week. I should tell you, sir, that the boys at Hackney said she’s a few sheep short of a flock. I gather Farrow might have been a bit short of a bob as well. So Ms Hale’s information was spartan. Farrow was taking her out that night as she understood it, and she waited for hours. She went down to The Grenadier and learned that he’d left just before dinnertime, but it was the publican who raised the alarm, called the police. She was incapable, I gather.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Go on.’
‘I spoke with the publican and a few people who knew Farrow and were there on that Thursday evening. They’ve all been interviewed thoroughly by the police and everything was apparently normal. Farrow was on his way home after work, stopped by for a sherbert or two — as he did a couple of times a week and always on a Thursday. He had a game of darts with someone the folks there knew, a friendly match, which Farrow lost. The guy — he’s a regular — left almost immediately but Farrow stayed for about another hour,
by which time it must’ve been around six forty-five. All stories seem to match.’
‘And he was going straight home?’
Cam shrugged. ‘No one said any different. It was payday and he was talking about taking Lisa out to the cinema for a late-night double bill.’
‘But never got there,’ Kate muttered.
‘Anything else you can give us?’ Hawksworth asked, a soft plea in his voice.
Cam grinned mischievously. ‘Yes, chief. Like you, I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just go home. I began to think that if he was going to take his girlfriend out and it was already nearing seven, he’d want to have got a move on, right?’ Everyone watched Cam expectantly and it was obvious he enjoyed the attention. ‘I went back through his phone records, which Hackney had already done. Farrow made a mobile phone call to his girlfriend at five past seven that evening. The police who interviewed her much later that night said she was obviously distraught and told them he didn’t say anything in that conversation other than normal stuff like he was on his way home.’ He shrugged. ‘But then she’s not quite the full quid and, well . . .’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘So where are you taking us with this?’
‘To a fish and chip shop in a tiny parade of shops at Hackney Marshes.’
‘Oh, so he bought Lisa a takeaway dinner, his idea of a big night out,’ Kate said, a hint of disdain in her tone.
Jack gave her a sideways glance that told her to stop the snide remarks.
‘Yeah, but here’s the thing,’ Cam said, his eyes glittering with excitement now, ‘there’s a chippie next door to The Grenadier. So why go to one that’s miles away when there’s a shop right in front of you?’
A momentary silence followed his question.
‘Better food?’ Jack offered.
‘He’s on foot, chief. Farrow didn’t drive and didn’t have his bike that day, according to his fiancee, because it had been stolen. And from what I’m gathering, Farrow wasn’t exactly discerning when it came to food, so I imagine fish and chips was fish and chips to him.’
‘You think he went to meet someone? The killer?’
‘I don’t know, but it begs the question. Listen to this. I’ve spoken with the fish and chip shop and they remember Farrow coming —’
‘Why?’ Kate asked.
Brodie looked irritated at being interrupted. ‘What?’
‘Why would a chippie remember a punter who isn’t a regular?’
‘Good question,’ Brodie said smugly, ‘and exactly the same thing I asked the guy — Ritchie Brown, he runs the place with his wife and dad.’
Jack was tiring of the long lead-up to whatever ace Cam planned to pull out of his cuff. ‘Come, on, Cam, finish this.’
‘Sorry, Hawk. Look, I was cynical too, but they remembered him because as they got talking while the food cooked, they learned he was originally from Brighton. Their family’s from Portslade. That’s like Kensington and Chelsea — next door. Anyway, Russell Secondary, where Farrow went, is now called
Blatchington Mill School and the guy who runs the chippie has a sister whose kids still go there.’
‘I can fill in the details on his school life,’ Kate offered.
Everyone sat forward and Cam couldn’t help but bask in the renewed interest. ‘I haven’t got much more to go,’ he said to Jack, who nodded.
‘Ritchie Brown remembers Farrow coming in that evening because he was a bit thick, as he put it. Apparently, Farrow told Brown a joke that took ages to get out and then he forgot the punchline. They got chatting about the school and Farrow told Brown that his best friend in those schooldays was someone who stammered. Ritchie can’t remember the name, unfortunately.’
Kate sighed. ‘I know it. Sorry to interrupt again, sir, but this is relevant. The stammerer’s name is Billy Fletcher. They must have been like a circus act.’
No one laughed. Instead, Jack held his hand up to stop Brodie.
‘Alright, Kate, what have you discovered?’
‘Right, sir.’ Kate nodded towards a PC. ‘Thanks to Dermot, who got together a very good list in just a few hours, I spoke to a couple of the teachers in Brighton and essentially learned nothing we hadn’t already worked out from our conversation with Diane Sheriff. Her husband, Michael, was shy, bit of a loner, but not an outcast, if you get my drift. He had people around him, but none you’d call friends and no one that anyone I spoke to could say he was in any way close to.’
Jack nodded. ‘Okay, that’s all disappointing and inconclusive.’
She put a finger in the air. ‘But I did better with Farrow. I got on to a Mrs Eva Truro, who took him for English Lit. She obviously has a memory like a vice because she could recall in detail various things about Farrow. As a teenager he was slow — as in not academic at all — but cunning, so hardly a complete dunce. He came to the school as a bully and fell in with a boy called Billy Fletcher.’
Jack watched Kate intently as he sipped his coffee and listened to her report. She found his attention disconcerting and self-consciously tugged at the top of her camisole to ensure no cleavage was accidentally showing. She’d forgotten all the others in the room who were giving her their equally undivided attention.
‘Fletcher, I gather, was intelligent, charming and good-looking, but he also had a stammer,’ she finished.
Jack put his cup down. ‘Bingo!’
Kate felt the glow of his praise infuse her as she sat back. Swamp clapped. Dermot, the youngest in their group, blushed brightly as various team members congratulated him.
‘This stammer won Billy Fletcher some unwanted attention from various students,’ Kate added, ‘and according to Mrs Truro, he and Farrow became thick as thieves for a while.’
‘Why only a while?’
‘She says it was because Clive left school at sixteen with a couple of CSEs, while Billy went on to take his A levels. That caused a natural separation, but there was a hint that she thought they’d fallen out anyway before Clive left.’
Jack sat forward. ‘Did she say anything concrete along those lines?’
‘No, sir, just a vague feeling I got when talking to her.’
He drummed his fingers against his mug. ‘So if we can find Billy Fletcher, he might be able to help us with our inquiries.’
Kate nodded, noticing how her boss’s long, neat fingers didn’t have chewed fingernails, unlike Dan’s, which seemed faintly ironic considering their two careers.
‘We have nothing yet that formally links Sheriff and Farrow,’ she said. ‘We do know they were both originally from Brighton, but they went to different schools, although the schools weren’t far from each other. I’m hoping these photos Diane Sheriff has found might put the two boys together. Either that or Fletcher might throw some light on it. It’s odd, isn’t it, that Diane Sheriff said her husband fell out with that gang of boys he moved with and then Mrs Truro tells me that this Fletcher fell out of favour with Farrow?’
‘Maybe Fletcher was part of the same gang and something happened between them all?’ Cam said.
Jack agreed. ‘Could be. But we’re talking . . . what? Nearly thirty years ago?’
Joan interrupted him. ‘Super wants to talk with you, Jack.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll call him straight back. Go on, Cam, you’d better finish your info.’
‘Well, as I say, Ritchie Brown got chatting with Farrow about old times in Brighton. He ordered enough food for two apparently. When the meals were ready, Brown was still reminiscing — I must admit, I found it hard to get away from him so I understand why Farrow said he had to go. When Brown asked
why he was in such a hurry, Farrow apparently pointed to a car outside and said he had a lift and didn’t want to keep his ride waiting.’
The ops room erupted into sudden chatter as the new pathway opened up.
‘Settle down,’ Jack called. ‘Did your guy get a fix on that car?’ he asked Brodie.
The DI grimaced. ‘All he could tell me was that it was red and fast. Presumably he means a two-seater.’
‘And the driver?’
‘Well, curiously, it’s a woman.’ Brodie consulted his notes. ‘The best he can do for us is she’s got longish dark hair. He didn’t see her face.’
‘Age?’
‘No idea. Brown said he made some farewell remark about hoping the lady enjoyed her dinner and Farrow protested that it wasn’t for her, she was just giving him a lift. Brown, of course, laughed — a bit suggestively, I gather — and Farrow got stirred up, said she was just someone he knew from the old days and he would never hurt a woman. Odd thing to say, right, chief?’
‘Yes, although maybe it’s something that goes back a while.’
‘Mrs Truro described him as a big lug and very threatening,’ Kate offered. ‘The other kids were scared of him, so perhaps he’s spent his life with women scared of him.’
Jack nodded. ‘Swamp, anything new for us?’
The older man shook his head. ‘The Lincoln boys did a good job. As we know, the last anyone saw of Sheriff was at a teachers’ get-together on fifth November at the Castle Hotel. It was a weekday night and threatening snow so very few people were out and about other than
those at organised Guy Fawkes’ nights. The receptionist, a Mrs Jean Farmer, took a call from the hospital, apparently around nine, to say one of the Sheriff kids had been brought in bleeding from a fall and asked her to tell Michael Sheriff to get straight home and that his wife would meet him there. He left around nine-fifteen after farewelling everyone in good spirits . . . er, that’s very good spirits — the man was apparently on his way to being smashed. According to his colleagues, he was taking a taxi. According to Jean Farmer, he never climbed into the taxi she’d ordered. In fact, he seemed to disappear from the bar. The barman was told to keep an eye on him but he got occupied with checking off a delivery and when he looked again, Sheriff had gone, presumably out the back or side doors — we don’t know. Jean Farmer thought nothing more about it, although she did ring the Sheriffs the following night to find out how the kid was. She learned then that the call from the hospital was a hoax and that Sheriff’s body had been found in the old quarter later that night.’
‘What do we know about the hotel?’ ‘It’s at the top of Lincoln in the old quarter, place called Westgate. Very dark, opposite a park. Our boys up north reckon Sheriff must have died in a car before being transferred to where he was found in the alley. Nothing was found near the body. The killer was careful.’
‘What about the call?’
‘No one has any idea.’
‘And the bar — anyone else there?’
‘No witnesses at all, Hawk. From police notes, I gather there was only one tourist having a beer in the bar, which is separate to the dining room and
reception area, who the barman recalls and Jean Farmer corroborated. But the barman — John Harris — says the bloke left before Sheriff came through from the dining room. Again, Jean Farmer concurs that there was no one else in the bar when she left Sheriff with Harris to go call a taxi.’
‘No other staff saw anything?’
Swamp shook his head. ‘Not according to Lincoln. One girl, er,’ he consulted his notes, ‘Emma Lansdowne, a housekeeper who was on that night, left for overseas the next day. They haven’t been able to reach her — she’s on some sort of trek in Nepal, no phone signal, and then on some batty retreat where there’re no personal phones permitted — but her parents believe she’ll be available any time now. It’s a long shot but I’ll stay on it.’
‘Okay. What about the call from the hospital?’
‘Casualty has no record of that call and obviously Susan Sheriff wasn’t hurt. That was how the killer got the victim moving alone. The taxi came but no sign of Sheriff.’
Jack blew out his cheeks, feeling momentarily defeated. ‘So Sheriff was abducted somewere beyond the bar, or he left the hotel by some back exit and was picked up outside. There has to be a witness somewhere who saw something. Keep hunting. Right, thanks, Swamp. Con?’
PC Constanides looked up eagerly.
‘I want you to ring the publican at the Castle and find out as much as he —’
‘She, sir,’ Swamp said.
‘Find out as much as she knows about who was in the pub that night. We want to know if anyone else
outside of the teachers’ party talked to Sheriff. We know the call from the hospital wasn’t legitimate — whoever made it is presumably that same someone who met Sheriff either inside or just outside the hotel. Get a list of all the teachers who were present at the dinner and start working through it. And talk again to all the staff who were on that night, especially that housekeeper, Emma. Swamp, we’ve got to go over everything about Sheriff’s movements that evening. I’ll say it again: someone must have seen something.’
Swamp nodded and said to the young PC, ‘See me after for the publican’s direct number. Her name’s Debra Hanson.’
Jack stood up. ‘Right. It sounds as though I have to go pay my dues with the Super. Kate, you get over to Lincoln and report back here soonest. You’ve got four and a half hours to turn it around — take a squad car. We meet back here at two this afternoon everyone.’
11
Garvan Flynn heard Clare returning from her day’s shopping in Worthing. ‘No need to cook tonight,’ he told her, pointing at the empty Tesco bags. ‘Their heat-and-serve chicken kiev looked irresistible.’ He smiled.
‘I’m not very hungry anyway,’ she said. ‘Sheila and I grabbed some lunch. How did the doctor go?’
‘Oh, the usual.’
He returned to the sitting room. She followed him.
‘What’s the usual?’
He could see she was irritated but he couldn’t help it. He had far more important things on his mind.
‘I’ve got a prescription for some antibiotics but it’s not going to my chest. I’ll just do the saltwater gargle. Stop worrying.’
‘Seemed rather pointless to go, then,’ Clare said and he heard the bite of suspicion in her tone. ‘Did you speak with Peter?’
‘Yes, he’s coming over on Friday. Sounds excited about something but wouldn’t say what.’
Clare was instantly diverted, looked at him wide-eyed. ‘Has he popped the question to Pat?’
It was Garvan’s turn to feel exasperated. ‘I don’t know. I’m hoping this is about the new contract.’
She nodded and looked out at the garden. ‘I see you’ve been digging through the shed then.’
‘I told you, I wanted to find all my fishing stuff. I was just having a breather and I’m about to head back.’ He couldn’t tell her the truth.
‘Make sure you leave my back garden tidy,’ she warned, but there was no heat in it. ‘And don’t strain yourself if you’re not too well.’
He needed to behave normally, no matter what the police reports were saying. They knew nothing.
‘I’m fine, love. The pot’s still warm — plenty left,’ he said and headed out to his shed, finally allowing himself to suck in the air he needed to calm down.
The news reports on the murders were intensifying. He’d only just got the television off in time as Clare had arrived home. She would hear it all soon enough; he couldn’t protect her from it. The police were either saying little or knew even less. So far they had two bodies that had been murdered in a similar way. The reporters were sensationalising it, of course: Britain’s new serial killer would strike again, they warned. They were right. If Farrow and Sheriff were dead, murdered, in different parts of the country, then it was certainly no coincidence. But who was doing the killing? Was it Fletcher or Bowles? He couldn’t imagine either of them doing it, or why. Was the murderer suddenly feeling guilty thirty years on? It was ridiculous.
That left only one other person . . .
Garvan felt tendrils of fear creep up his spine. He’d been shocked by the double murder because
he’d known both victims, but now he started to feel nervous for himself. If Bletch was picking them off one by one, three decades after the event, then he wasn’t immune. In fact, he would be the prime target.
Peter!
He lost his breath all over again. Felt a twinge of pain ripple through his chest. He scrabbled in his pocket for his angina tablets, swallowed one and tried his best to breathe through the pain as he’d been taught. It was panic bringing this on. And he mustn’t panic. None of the boys had known anything about him. No one could lead Bletch to him. Peter would be safe, Clare would be safe. He just had to hold his nerve.
As he sat in the shed, trying to calm himself, steady his breathing, his mind wandered back to that time of madness when he was barely twenty-seven.
He had watched them for a few weeks now, smirking at their taunts. ‘Bletch’: it was a word he didn’t know but it suited their target. He wasn’t sure why but he kept wishing they’d do more than just throw the stupid schoolbag around. They had no idea of what power they held, especially in a gang. He understood powerlessness — knew how it felt to be the Bletch, quietly taking an unjust punishment. He would love to strike back at the source of the punishment he was going through, but he couldn’t; instead, he sat here outside a school, taking sad pleasure in watching someone else being bullied.
Recently, his thoughts had turned darker. He had begun to fantasise about Bletch being at their mercy — his mercy. The fantasy made him feel in control. He could banish the reality of his own messed-up life;
the constant disappointment in himself; the accusation in his wife’s eyes.
How Elsie had heralded him when Clare had first brought him home! He was young, healthy and in a good, steady job as a legal clerk in a bank. He was definitely marriage material — he could see it reflected in Elsie’s welcoming smile and eager gaze. He’d had several girlfriends, but Clare was the first one who’d mothered him, made him feel as though he was some sort of hero in her life. She used to sit and knit jumpers for him, watch him from the freezing stands as he played football for the Blatchington Strikers. And afterwards she’d sit quietly, contentedly, in the pub, listening to him and the rest of the team dissect the game. She loved to cook it was obvious from the little flat she shared with two girlfriends that she was a good housekeeper and although they never went all the way before they married, the sex was enthusiastic and Clare was eager to please him in every way. Loving her was easy. She wasn’t especially pretty — but then neither was he — and Clare made up for that shortfall by adoring him. And so they had married after only seven months of courting. She worked in a clerical position at Caffyns Car Company and he got a small promotion. Life was good, especially when Elsie announced that she and her husband were giving Clare their savings early. They wanted their only daughter to have a roof over her head that she owned.
It was incredibly generous but it came at a price. Elsie now owned Garvan, or so it felt to him. Within a year of their wedding day, Clare had become clucky, talking about children constantly. Although he too yearned for a solid family life — his own had been rocky, with
estranged parents and no siblings — he’d soon started to hate the way the desire for a child changed their relationship. He and Clare were genuinely the closest of friends and the affection between them was strong, but as the need to nest turned urgent, and nothing he did produced a baby for that nest, Clare became withdrawn. Garvan started to feel like an outcast in his own home. Arguments increased, and Clare’s parents got drawn into the fray, with Elsie quick to point the finger and demand tests. Tests that showed he was the problem. Now he couldn’t even get a hard-on in front of Clare, let alone get her pregnant. Their lives had essentially unravelled to the point where a separation was considered the only option.
The loneliness hurt. He was sick of staying with friends, and had even slept rough in his car a couple of times. He had no idea how to kill the time between work and sleep, and had taken to driving aimlessly around Brighton and Hove to pass a few hours. It was parked in Hangleton, staring vacantly out of the car window, that he’d first seen the gang tormenting Bletch. He discovered how watching their bullying tactics made him rock hard. He would stroke himself in the car, safe in the knowledge that no one could see what he was doing. His fantasy escalated. He wanted that power.
He filled his mind with visions of Bletch begging through tears as he straddled that pale wobbling flesh and felt his hard prick entering —
A yellow car stopped and a woman yelled at the teenagers. He heard the sounds of the boys’ laughter as they raced off. He started the ignition of his own car, a Ford Cortina, and cruised past Bletch, watching the sad-looking kid in his rear-vision mirror.
Imagining the fat kid under him helped banish Clare’s sorrow and her mother’s accusing stares. How much stronger would he feel if he could turn fantasy into reality?
Kate left London immediately Jack had ended the meeting and reached Diane Sheriff’s house by eleven. She sat at the kitchen table waiting for Diane to return with the photos. A sullen-looking girl was watching television, her eyes red. Kate could tell that this was from tears rather than a cold or any illness.
‘Our Susan’s not well today,’ Diane Sheriff said, bustling back into the kitchen with some dusty photo albums. ‘She’s having a bad day over her dad,’ she added in a whisper. Kate nodded and Diane continued more loudly, ‘These are all I could find in the loft. Mike tended to want to take the photos rather than be in them.’
Kate smiled sympathetically. ‘Thank you. Can I take a flick through them here?’
‘Of course. How about a cuppa?’
‘Am I holding you up?’
Diane shook her head as she filled the kettle, talking over the noise of the tap. ‘This is my day off. I’m glad of the company to tell the truth.’
Kate opened the first book and saw pictures of the Sheriffs’ courting days, which morphed into what must have been an engagement party and then a few wedding pictures, before being turned over entirely to them as smiling parents. The second book was older, mainly of Diane and her family. Mike Sheriff appeared in a few lonely shots.
‘How old was Mike here?’ Kate asked.
Diane walked to stand beside her, the jar of cheap coffee powder and spoon in her hand. ‘Um, well, I was about twenty-two, I think. I didn’t know him then, of course, but I tried to integrate some of his photos from his twenties into mine of around the same time, so I imagine Mike would have been about twenty-six.’
Kate kept flipping but found nothing of interest. She wanted earlier photos. The next book was entirely devoted to pictures of the Sheriff children. She put it aside almost immediately. A black photo album came next, almost all the shots of Diane but also a few photos of Mike as an infant with his parents.
‘These are very sweet,’ Kate commented, more for something to say as Diane placed the mug of coffee in front of her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh yes, that’s the only book he’s ever had. I think his mother put that together. She did one for each of the children.’
‘How many of them were there?’
Kate reached for the coffee she really didn’t want and shook her head when Diane pointed to the sugar bowl.
‘There were four of them. He had three sisters.’
‘Oh, so the spoilt little prince, eh?’ She aimed for levity but it didn’t work.
Diane grimaced. ‘Not really. I think Mike felt he was a bit of a disappointment to his parents from what I can gather. He never talked much about his childhood, but I think he felt a bit . . .’ She searched for the word and then shrugged, her eyes misting.
‘Unfulfilled?’ Kate offered, desperate to stop the woman from breaking down.
Diane nodded, gathered her composure. ‘I think that’s why he worked so hard to be a good father and good teacher. He really was such a decent man. He did far more for the kids in his classes than most would.’
Kate sipped the tasteless coffee. Too much water, not enough milk. But sipping crap coffee was the diversion she needed because she didn’t really know what to say to comfort Diane Sheriff. She could see the woman would be a long time in coming to terms with her husband’s death, and Kate knew herself to be useless at empty platitudes.
‘Lucky last,’ she said, reaching for a cheaper-looking album that had a sunset on the cover. The first page was filled with a series of school pictures.
‘That’s Mike aged eight,’ Diane said, pointing a bitten nail at one old-fashioned square photo. Beneath it someone had written ‘1967’. He was standing with three other children, all of them grinning heartily, save Mike. ‘He wasn’t one for posing,’ Diane said, ruefully. ‘I’d completely forgotten we had these few old photos of him at school.’
Kate felt the first spike of adrenaline hit her system. She was tapping into the right era of Michael Sheriff’s life and she all but held her breath as she turned the next page. Mike was older here, wearing long pants with a dark blazer, no jumper and a white shirt with a tie properly knotted. This was it. This was what she’d come for.
‘This is Mike at his comprehensive school in Brighton somewhere,’ Diane said.
Kate had memorised the photograph of Clive Farrow’s dead face and her eyes ranged across the pages now, desperately searching for similarities.
‘Are you looking for that other man?’ Diane wasn’t quite as dim as Kate had her down for.
‘I was hoping we might make a connection between Mike and him at school, yes.’
Diane shook her head. ‘I can’t help you there. As I said, Mike didn’t really talk about childhood days. He once said he wanted to forget his years of senior school. He said 1974 to ’75 was the worst year of his life. Funny,’ she smiled as she stared out of the window, ‘that was one of my best.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘The odd thing is, he still put his name and photo up on that internet thing.’
‘What thing?’
‘You know, where they bring you together with your old school pals.’
‘Yes, I do. There are a couple of those operating now, aren’t there?’
Diane nodded. ‘It was my fault, really. I registered and felt so elated to suddenly start hearing from people I’d forgotten about that I kept encouraging Mike to do the same.’ Her eyes became misty. ‘I think he only did it to prove to all those people from his past that he had a great job and a family who loved him — you know . . .’
‘That he was successful,’ Kate finished for her.
‘Yes.’ Diane sniffed. ‘And that he was happy.’
‘Mum?’ Susan’s voice came from the sitting room.
‘Oh, excuse me a moment, Kate.’
Diane left the table and Kate used the time to course through the rest of the book, eager to find any pictures dated 1975. The photos were either of Michael or of the whole school, neither of which
were helpful to her as Clive Farrow didn’t go to this school. She got to the end of the book and disappointment knifed through her. Nothing here that she could use.
Diane came back in. ‘Any luck?’
Kate shook her head and sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid not. And this is all you have, you say?’
‘Yes. I gave the loft a good long search too, so I don’t believe there are any other photos knocking about. Mike was such a squirrel. Never able to throw anything out, you see, but he was a neat squirrel and kept that loft in very tight order. He had a box marked “photograph albums,” and you’ve seen everything that was in there.’
Kate felt a little lost. She knew a lot was riding on this and her thoughts were already reaching towards Brodie and his forthcoming meeting with Farrow’s family. Perhaps he would have more luck. Something needed to break to give them a lead. She stared at the back cover of the book helplessly, then noticed a brown piece of paper sticking out of the lining. She tugged at it absently just as Diane said, ‘Finished here?’