Authors: Elizabeth Corley
‘Because he’s going to kill again – I know it. He’s building up to something grand. There’s too much of the showman in him to end on a hit-and-run.’ He paused. ‘And because if you find him he stands a chance of trial – and treatment for the sick man he’s become.’
‘Meaning that that won’t happen if military intelligence find him first? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You’re a big boy, Chief Inspector. Work it out for yourself.’
‘If you’re serious about helping us, Bayliss, you’ll have to
tell us everything you know. So far all you’ve done is confirm his name and rank and work on our suspicions. I need more – like where he might be right now.’
‘There’s no knowing. He’s got money, remember.’
‘His targets have all been in Sussex so far – is he likely to have a base here, say Brighton?’
‘Possibly. It’s got the advantage of the coast. You could try there, but I’d also look to London. It would be my guess. The first abduction happened there, didn’t it? And the body was discovered in the west. He’d have more flexibility if he was in London – South London with good access to the M25. He may be in a hotel, but I doubt it. More likely a short-term let. He’ll need to plan – be able to leave his kit and materials out – so he won’t want a serviced place.’ Cooper was scribbling furiously.
‘And transport?’
‘He’ll keep changing that.’ Bayliss thought. ‘Rented – by cash, I reckon, from different firms. He
might
have bought something fucking fast, as a backup in case he needed to get away in a hurry.’
‘In which case he’d need a garage. Perhaps it’s a maisonette or mews. Even something with covered parking. What name might he be using?’
‘Well, it won’t be his own and we don’t exactly disclose aliases much in our work! But as to what it might be, I haven’t a clue! This is a man who’s used to blending in whatever the circumstances. He could have any identity, and change it as easily as you do your jacket.’ He inevitably looked to Cooper as he said this, thought of a smart remark but then swallowed it.
‘All this is adding up, even for a man with a million. Are there any other places he might have kept money?’
‘Not that I know of; all his accounts have been frozen, and he wouldn’t be able to sell his house. I suppose he might sell the old man’s, though, if he was running low.’
‘I’ll alert the Australian authorities.’
‘No, not in Australia, here. The uncle kept his house here – rented it to Vic’s parents when he emigrated.’
Fenwick and Cooper shouted out simultaneously:
‘House?’
‘Where?’
‘It’s somewhere local, where he grew up. But you can be bloody sure he won’t be there!’
‘But he might visit it, for old times’ sake.’
‘Unlikely. Very unlikely, Chief Inspector – this man’s a professional.’
‘Yes, and a sick professional, according to you and on his own. It will be interesting to see if he’s keeping his judgement.’
‘I’ll get on to it straight away, sir. We know the old man’s name. We’ll find it soon enough.’
‘How? He emigrated twenty years ago.’ Bayliss regarded the portly, middle-aged detective with doubt. Cooper couldn’t resist a moment of bravado – honour demanded it.
‘There are many ways. Council records, Land Registry, old electoral rolls. It won’t take us long.’
‘And the old school records, Sergeant. Don’t forget we still have those. When that house is found, I want you to give it the full treatment, OK?’ Cooper almost stood to attention.
Fenwick quickly ran through the remaining practicalities. Bayliss took a lot of persuading but he finally agreed to make a formal statement, help with the video fit of Rowland and have his fingerprints taken for elimination purposes – all provided it could be in a neutral setting where there was no chance he could be identified by anyone watching Fenwick.
At the last moment, as he was about to leave, Bayliss hovered, reluctant to go.
‘Be careful, Chief Inspector. Vic is brilliant at his job. If he’s going to kill again, he’ll already have his plans in place – he’s a meticulous planner.’ Fenwick nodded and turned to walk away but Bayliss grabbed his arm, his face filled with doubt.
‘Go armed, Fenwick. He will be. Don’t put your boys up against him with wooden sticks; he would cut them down without a fucking thought.’ Fenwick nodded once in acknowledgement, and then finally turned away.
The air was thick and heavy as he made his way unobtrusively down South Street, through Canon Gate and down Canon Lane into the cloisters. Bunches of tourists loitered in the cool-banded shadows, idly reading plaques and memorials. Young girls wedged themselves into the arched gaps that faced on to the green lawn called Paradise to catch the sharply angled sun on arms and faces already burnt brown by the summer.
He walked steadily, but not so purposefully as to draw attention to himself, and passed into the hush of the cathedral. It was busy inside, which suited his purpose. He smiled at one of the willing lady helpers and went to sit on a wooden chair in the long narrow nave. Scaffolding from restoration work spoilt the perspective but he noted it was already being dismantled.
Behind him was the main west door, to his right the south aisle with small chapels beyond. The sun shone through the south-facing windows, casting aqueous ripples of pink, blue and green light on the stone floor. On his left the north aisle ran straight, dull and shadowed. He craned his neck upwards past the Purbeck marble shafts to the simple stone vaulting. He noticed none of the fine Norman architecture and considered only the nuisance value of the delicate stone pulpitum that stretched in perfect balance across the nave in front of the choir.
He started to pace slowly along the north aisle, passed Holst’s tomb without a glance and continued to the lady chapel at the eastern extreme of the cathedral. There were few obvious places
of concealment and none that would afford him a view down into the nave. His progress back along the south aisle was impatient but he forced himself to keep to the same measured pace.
He ignored the Romanesque carved stone panels, the cathedral’s most astonishing treasure in nearly nine hundred years of artistic patronage. He was completely preoccupied with his need to find the right vantage point, and disappointed by the openness of the tombs and chapels that he passed. A large group of tourists walked by him, following a guide providing a commentary in English, despite their mixed nationalities. The man joined them, careful to avoid being noticed as he completed a circuit of the cathedral for a second time.
Half an hour later he was no further forward and he decided to have lunch in the Bishop Bell gardens tucked against the south face of the cathedral. As he sat on his own, eating a salad, three men and a woman seated themselves at a nearby table to drink their tea. Their conversation washed over him unnoticed until he caught a reference to ‘the performance’.
‘It’s going to be difficult to fit them all in, particularly as you’ve decided to increase the size of the choir and orchestra.’
‘Yes, Dean. I appreciate that but we must be able to do something. Is there a gallery we can use? Or what about the aisles?’
‘Fire regulations prevent us from using the aisles and we don’t have a gallery. We can’t have people standing on the Bell Arundel screen either.’
‘What about putting some of the girls in the choir? They wouldn’t be able to see, of course, but they should still be able to hear.’
‘Yes, that would be feasible, as long as they were well supervised.’
‘Well of course!’ The woman sounded offended.
The first man spoke again. From the corner of his eye the eavesdropper could see him pot-bellied and anxious, sitting primly in his jacket and tie despite the heat. ‘But we still need
to find somewhere for the trumpeters. The trumpeters, you see, for the Tuba mirum.’
‘If there aren’t many, you could use part of the triforium. It would need cleaning up but that wouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘The triforium – where’s that?’
‘It’s an arcade that runs all the way along the nave, above the aisles. It’s quite narrow, and access is restricted so you’d have to limit the numbers but it would work.’
The man left the remainder of his salad and went back to the cathedral. Inside, he looked up above the arches of the nave and saw the wooden platform running all the way along above the aisles. The Dean might have been too pompous to call it a gallery but that’s exactly what it looked like. He walked quickly along the south aisle, looking for steps. He found a flight, curving upwards, and climbed.
It was dusty and cramped, and there were wires snaking across the floor, but it gave a perfect view down into the nave. There was an old chest tucked against the wall. Thick layers of dust in its worn carvings suggested it was little used. It would be perfect for his needs. He had already devised his excuse for being here for the performance. Now all he needed to do was start his early preparations.
Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda,
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.
Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.
Lord, deliver me out of everlasting death,
Oh Lord, upon that day of terror, when the earth and the heavens shall be shaken.
When thou shalt come and the whole world know the fire of judgement.
There was a full team meeting in the evening with the Assistant Chief Constable in attendance. Fenwick was still in charge but Alistair Harper-Brown, the ACC, was now taking a personal interest in the case.
The team had been expanded again and the meeting was part briefing, part council of war. Fenwick pulled no punches as he told them all bluntly that they were dealing with a serial killer who would kill again. He told them enough about Rowland to make them proceed with extreme caution, but not enough to panic them. The details of the likely weapons the man could be carrying he saved for the authorised firearms officers who had joined the team.
The ACC had refused to issue firearms straight away. There was no immediate danger to the team and Rowland’s whereabouts was still unknown. If and when they found the uncle’s house the investigating team would be armed, but otherwise Harper-Brown was concerned about escalation too early. Fenwick accepted his judgement reluctantly.
Individual areas of investigation were placed under the direction of a number of detective sergeants and inspectors. There was now a real risk of the case pulling apart as each section of the team pursued its own inquiries. Fenwick decided to keep Cooper as his right-hand man, available to investigate new areas quickly but also to help him co-ordinate the work. Nightingale had almost fallen into the role of a glorified PA – available to do whatever, whenever it was necessary, but neither
she nor Fenwick was complaining. She realised that as the new girl she had a unique chance to stay at the heart of their inquiry rather than being relegated to the role of foot soldier on the periphery. If that involved menial tasks, so be it.
Lines of inquiry were agreed, with strict instructions given to report in regularly and for the heads of the teams to attend all progress meetings. Fenwick was sure the case would be solved by working the connections. He handed Cooper and Nightingale a list of activities and who was heading up what:
1) Trace Anderson – recheck alibis – Newgent – when found Fenwick/Cooper to interview.
2) Find Rowland’s uncle’s house – Ball. – A.F.O.s in attendance. Full SOCO treatment.
3) Interview all traced school friends and teachers – Parmiter.
4) Prepare press statements and field enquiries – Fenwick + P. R. officer
5) Trace car rental for April – and subsequently – Hurst.
6) Letting Agents – find Rowland’s current whereabouts – Russell.
7) Circulate information/new picture to all stations – Nightingale.
‘Right, let’s run through it one more time.’ Fenwick’s voice betrayed his weariness, a hard lump of stress in his throat. Everyone except he, Cooper and Nightingale had already gone home but he was desperate to ensure nothing had been overlooked. He took a gulp of tepid machine brew and felt his stomach twinge; he missed the secretary’s special filter coffee.
‘Cooper, as soon as we find Anderson, you and I visit, and we don’t leave until we have the full story. If necessary, we charge her with wasting police time and take her into custody.’
Cooper and Nightingale looked at each other and winced.
‘Ball is looking for the house,’ Fenwick continued. ‘Cooper, watch that one. Next, Nightingale, you’ve drawn a blank on any new information from old school friends. It’s probably a
waste of time doing too much more but I’ve given Parmiter two days and a good-size team. Make sure that Rowland’s picture is distributed across the country, with a briefing. I’ll help you draft that. Most importantly, I want regular reports on all developments. Wherever I am you’re to make sure I get them. I’ve got the press off my back for a few hours but we’ll need another briefing ready. They’ve smelt blood. Next, Bayliss’ knife. We’ve got forensic’s report. They state “both wounds could have been inflicted by weapons of similar shape, weight and design.” That’s as close as they’ll come to confirmation and it’s good enough for me—’
Cooper interrupted: ‘Bayliss has solid alibis for all three attacks and there’s no match at all between his fingerprints and the fragment we have from Johnstone’s house. It looks as if he’s clear.’
‘Good. That makes things easier. The Met have got teams trying to trace the car used in the April abduction, and, with luck, the car he’ll be using now. They’re going to focus on South London first; I think we should back Bayliss’ instinct there. I want to be available to become involved in that as soon as there’s anything solid to follow up. So wherever I am, you’ll have to find me if we get a lead. OK?’