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.’
‘And I told you about mine,’ she said.
‘You said Jerry is pro-life and you take the opposite view.’
‘Well, I would.’
‘Does he know about the child you aborted?’
‘I’ve never discussed it with him. He may have heard from his father, I suppose. Now that he’s so anti I wouldn’t risk telling him myself. Call me a coward, but he doesn’t need to know, does he?’
‘This Hosannah Church makes the sanctity of life one of its main issues, doesn’t it?’
‘No doubt of that. Where’s this going, Peter? What are you trying to say?’
He spoke in a low, undramatic tone. ‘We know the medical histories of these women who were murdered. Each of them had an abortion.’
Her face convulsed with horror as she made the connection. Then she covered her eyes. ‘Oh my God, say it isn’t true.’
He knew he must tell her the rest. ‘He visits hospitals with his library trolley. He has the opportunity to see where they keep the patients’ records. He’s known to the staff. No one is going to suspect a volunteer of doing anything underhand. But this pro-life issue is a crusade. People who choose to have an abortion for no good medical reason are murderers in the eyes of extremists.
It’s possible Jerry has taken it a stage further.’
A cry came from Paloma, a long, agonised wail of despair. She dipped forward and her face slammed on the keyboard in front of her. Her back shook. She sobbed uncontrollably.
He couldn’t watch this without responding. He bent over her and gripped her shoulders. ‘Paloma. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry . . .’
She didn’t answer. She was inconsolable. She had the shakes now.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it round her. Shock is a dangerous condition. The blood pressure falls dramatically. First-aid training tells you the best you can do is calm the patient. But how?
Of all things, the phone in the jacket pocket started vibrating and Paloma felt it against her. She jerked and gasped. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his trouser pocket.
There was a bottle of water on the filing cabinet. He uncapped it and said, ‘Drink a little of this.’
She turned to face him, tears coursing down her cheeks.
He handed her the water and she took some. ‘You came here to tell me?’ she said.
He nodded.
She drank some more of the water. ‘Answer your phone. You’ve got a job to do.’
He took out the mobile and pressed the key to make contact. He knew it would be Leaman.
‘Guv?’
‘Go on.’
‘Two lads on patrol just reported in from Kean’s place. Negative.One of his neighbours saw him go out about nine thirty. That’s two hours ago. It looks bad.’
‘The church?’
‘Also negative.’
‘I’ll get back to you shortly.’ He returned the phone to his pocket and asked Paloma if she had any idea where Jerry would be. ‘If we can find him we may prevent another tragedy.’
Her face was a mask of pain. She shook her head. ‘I can’t think. I can’t think.’
His own thought process had stalled as well. ‘What does he drive now?’
‘He rented a Mitsubishi Shogun. Black.’
‘D’you know the registration?’
She didn’t.
He frowned, struggling to get those thoughts functioning again. Something important. He tried running through Jerry’s routine: the personal training, the hospital visits, the church. He pictured him pushing his trolley of books.
‘When he visits the hospitals, how does he transport the trolley? It wouldn’t fit into the Shogun.’
‘He uses the church van. It’s dark blue, with Hosannah written on the side.’
This was the breakthrough.
‘Where’s it kept?’ He raised his palm. ‘Hold on. I know. You told me there’s a depot for the books on some trading estate.
That
’s where he’s gone.’
P
aloma sat beside him as he drove down Lyncombe Hill. She wasn’t speaking, but she’d stopped crying. She had insisted she wanted to help, and Diamond could see the usefulness of having her with him. An arrest is the ultimate confrontation. Her presence might be a calming influence. She had a good rapport with her son.
The Brassmill Trading Estate, off Brassmill Lane, was familiar territory, almost his own back yard, just down the road from Lower Weston. Raffles the cat had once gone missing for two days and turned up there at a printer’s, where they had a tabby of their own on a diet of gourmet beef fillet in sauce. Raffles, used to cheap chicken chunks in jelly, climbed up the curtain and claimed sanctuary when it was time to go home.
When last there, Diamond hadn’t noticed a book depot on the estate. Easy to overlook, though. Every building looked the same.
He’d called Leaman and cars were converging on Brassmill from several points of the city. There was still a hope that Martin Steel was alive. It had turned midnight already, but the MO suggested he would be taken out and executed later in the night.
‘Not far now,’ he said – the sort of bland remark that gave Paloma the chance to say something if she wished.
After a pause she said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought of this place.’
‘Tucked away, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve never seen it. He scarcely ever speaks of it.’
‘Everything closes down at six. Tailor-made for keeping a hostage.’
That drew a line under the conversation.
The streetlights dwindled when they turned off the Upper Bristol Road at Weston and headed into trading estate country, where functional ‘units’ were rented at a fraction of city-centre prices. The Locksbrook Estate came up first. Brassmill Lane was just a continuation on the road. A police car with lights turned off was parked at the first entrance.
He braked and lowered his window. ‘Anyone gone in?’
‘DI Leaman and two RRVs, sir. Take a left by the tyre-fit place and you’ll see them.’
He drove in and located the other police vehicles parked in front of a carpet outlet. Leaman came to meet him, stooped at the open window and saw Paloma, but didn’t get introduced.
‘What do you reckon?’ Diamond asked.
‘The book depot is right behind this warehouse, guv. There’s a Shogun Warrior parked outside.’
‘That’s his motor.’
‘We’ve disabled it.’
‘Good. What sort of back-up do we have?’
‘A rapid response team. The place is surrounded.’
‘Let’s go in. I’m not expecting a shoot-out. He isn’t that kind of animal.’
He got out and so did Paloma. He asked her to stay well back unless she was needed. Then he walked round the side of the carpet warehouse and saw the Shogun parked in front of a row of three small cabin-style buildings with flat roofs.
Leaman pointed to the one on the left. The windows were screened with slatted blinds. A light was on.
Diamond signalled with palms down that he wanted no action from the armed back-up. With Leaman at his side he walked up to the door, looked for a bell-push, found none and rapped with his knuckles.
No response.
He eyed Leaman, shrugged, and tried again with more force. Same result.
‘It has to be the fifty-pound door key, then.’
Leaman motioned to one of the men in Kevlar body-armour.
An enforcer, a police battering ram, was brought over. ‘It’s a crime scene inside,’ Diamond warned. ‘I don’t want you going in like the SAS.’
The locks must have been stout because three swings were needed to gain entry.
A foul smell hit them when the door swung inwards. Diamond pressed his hand to his face.
His way in was blocked by Jerry’s trolley. He had to trundle it to one side, and even then he was faced with a fully stacked bookcase reaching almost to the ceiling. To get further in you had to sidle around it.
He took a step in and spoke Jerry’s name. Trying to sound reasonable with a message that suggested the opposite, he said, ‘There are armed men with me. I want you face down on the floor.’
No sound came back, and he had a strong sense that the place was empty.
He edged round the bookcase.
No one.
But if any doubt lingered about Jerry’s guilt, this scene removed it. The bookcase was literally a front that screened off a primitive cell, with slop bucket, mattress, plastic plates and water bottles.
Scraps of food were scattered about the floor along with shoes, Kleenex tissues and Hosannah totebags.
Leaman came in behind him.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘But his car’s still outside, guv.’
‘Hole in one, John. He drives here in the Shogun and uses the van to transport his victims. He’s already on his way to another hanging.’