Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
I
t didn’t take
much to figure out that ‘Jamo’ would be James Christensen, the son of Yvonne. That still left them Scott to discover – but three of the four gang members who had beaten Nigel Collins into a coma had now had a parent brutally murdered.
Jessica and Cole hurried out of the prison. One of the reception workers drove them back to the train station and Jessica spent large parts of the car trip and train journey on her phone.
The first thing they had to do was find out Scott’s identity. What was his last name and where did he live? More importantly for now, where did his
parents
live? Someone had to find them, to make sure they weren’t the next victims.
All they had to go on was that Scott was a few years younger than Jonathan Prince and Shaun Hogan – and in the same school year as James Christensen. Shaun had told them which school they attended and it would be easy enough check the intake for that particular year to look for anyone called Scott.
Unless he had changed his name in the meantime, it would give them maybe one person to look at if they were lucky – certainly no more than five or six. With any luck, they would have tracked down their man by the time the train pulled in.
Their next concern was to find Nigel Collins. Was he the killer? He was connected to all three murders, and had a motive. Jessica didn’t know why he would target the parents, though, instead of those who had hurt him.
DCI Aylesbury told Jessica over the phone that he would assign a team to find Scott and another to find Nigel.
The train took the same length of time to arrive back in Manchester as it had to get to Leeds – but this time, Jessica was on edge. Every stop had her seething, checking her watch and wondering what was taking so long. Cole’s coolness again infuriated her. He didn’t need to say anything, his posture said it all:
getting stressed won’t help
. It
was
helping her, though.
Her phone rang as they pulled into the Oxford Road station. It was marginally closer to their Longsight base than the main Piccadilly station and Jessica had suggested getting a taxi from there to save them a few minutes.
Back at the station and the other officers had not got very far in finding Scott. James Christensen had gone back to Bournemouth University, according to his father. No one seemed to be able to get in contact with him. He wasn’t answering his mobile and a couple of local officers had been despatched to find him.
Perhaps the only thing they
had
managed was to confirm which secondary school James had attended. Officers had visited and found an intake list from the year they needed, despite being told at first it was against the Data Protection Act. A call from the DCI had apparently straightened that out. The school had emailed the force a copy, as well as handing over a photocopied version of the original.
There were three people named Scott in the same year as James Christensen: Scott Hesketh, Scott Harris and Scott Barry. Those names were being cross-checked with birth certificates, the electoral roll and other easily accessible name archives. The school itself had a limited amount of information on past pupils. From what the officer told Jessica, it was basic – name, grades and home address. Given those addresses were six years old, that didn’t give them much to go on. Officers had been sent out to each of the three addresses to see if they could come up with something. The rest of the information was being checked against their own police databases.
The situation with Nigel Collins was even worse.
It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth the day he walked out of hospital. They had checked housing association records but had been told that he never returned after leaving hospital. There were forty-seven men with the name of Nigel Collins living in the United Kingdom – a team was currently narrowing that number down based on age. There were no Nigel Collinses fitting the age bracket living locally.
By the time Jessica reached the main floor, Rowlands told her that one of their three Scotts had been ruled out.
Scott Barry and his family had moved to a place in the Bristol area not long after he had finished school. He was an auctioneer – an officer had struck lucky simply by searching for his name on the Internet. A quick phone call had established he was not the person they were looking for, and that his parents were alive and well, living in Portugal.
That left Scott Hesketh and Scott Harris to track down. Officers had been to both addresses found on the school records. At the address they had for Scott Harris, there was no answer, but the house was registered to a Paul and Mary Keegan, according to land deeds. At the other, whoever had answered said they had never heard of anybody with the last name Hesketh. The occupants had only lived there a few months themselves.
‘Has anyone been able to get hold of James Christensen yet?’ Jessica asked.
‘What do you think?’
Jessica returned to her office to check the updates from the morning. It was only a few minutes before a call came through to say that officers in the south had finally been able to get hold of Yvonne Christensen’s son in Bournemouth. There was nothing sinister going on – he had been in lectures and had his phone off. His classmates would have had quite a spectacle as he had been hauled out by police officers in order for them to speak to him.
The call was pushed through to Jessica’s desk phone. ‘Is that James?’ she asked.
‘Who’s this?’ a young man’s voice asked. ‘No one’s told me anything here.’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Jessica Daniel. I’ve been working on the case regarding what happened to your mother.’
‘Oh…’ The voice was sullen, quiet. ‘No one’s hurt my dad, have they?’
‘Your father’s fine, but I have to ask you about something that happened a few years ago.’
‘Okay…’
‘Does the name Nigel Collins mean anything to you?’
Silence.
‘James…?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘James, this is very serious. We can return to Nigel another time, but I need to ask about your friend Scott. What was his last name?’
The voice was quavering at the other end of the line. ‘Scott? Oh God…’
Jessica spoke quickly: ‘I’m sorry, but you have to be calm, okay? Do you remember Scott’s last name?’
‘Harris. It was Scott Harris. Am I in trouble?’
Jessica explained that nothing had been decided but that he might want to get a lawyer. After hanging up, she bounded down the stairs two at a time, charging through to the main floor where everyone was working.
‘It’s Harris,’ she called. ‘Forget Hesketh, find Scott Harris.’
They knew the place he used to live was now owned by a family whose name was Keegan. The officer who had knocked on the door had been left outside the property in case anyone returned.
Jessica suddenly had a thought and moved to where Rowlands was busy typing on a computer. ‘Did someone check the birth, death and marriage details for the Scotts we were checking on?’ she asked.
‘We got the birth certificates for all three of them.’
‘What about the marriage records?’
‘No, why?’
‘Check the records for any Harris who has got married in the past twenty years or so.’ Rowlands put the search into the computer and a list of a few hundred names came up. ‘Now see if any of those Harrises married a Keegan.’
The constable’s eyes widened as he realised what she was talking about. If Scott Harris’s mum had remarried, she’d have a different last name.
He tapped a few more buttons on the keyboard, which left them only one name. He brought up the full record but Jessica already knew which address it would throw up.
They’d had a police officer standing outside it for the past two hours.
O
nce they knew
the Keegans were the family they were looking for, things moved quickly. Whether he was called Scott Harris or Scott Keegan, the son wasn’t an instant priority. No decision had been made about reopening the Nigel Collins case but, given everything they knew, Scott’s parents could be in danger.
Jessica spoke to the officer at the scene to tell him to try the front door on the off-chance it was unlocked, and then to check around the back and look through the windows to see if anything was visible.
They discovered mobile phone numbers for both Mary Keegan – formerly Harris – and Paul Keegan. As she was being driven in a marked car to the house, Jessica tried both numbers. Mary’s rang out with no answer but Paul Keegan answered his.
It was mid-afternoon and Mr Keegan told Jessica he was at work in the council offices. She asked if he could return home to meet them. His instant question was: ‘Is everyone all right?’
Jessica had no idea how to answer and didn’t want to lie by giving a definitive ‘yes’, so replied, ‘We hope so.’ She knew the poor guy would be frantic on his way home but there wasn’t much else she could say. At best, she would apologise in person if everyone was safe and well.
At worst…
The Keegans’ house was in the same Gorton area as those of the first three victims. All four properties were within a mile’s radius of each other. The journey wasn’t too far from the station and Jessica tried Mary Keegan’s phone over and over. It rang out every time.
The officer who had been sent earlier was waiting for them outside the Keegan home.
‘Any luck?’ Jessica asked, wondering if he had been able to get in, or at the very least see something.
‘No. It’s locked and the curtains are pulled.’
Jessica started to walk past but his next line sent a chill down her spine. ‘I’ve been hearing a phone ring inside non-stop for last ten minutes or so.’
‘Shit.’
Another marked car pulled in behind theirs, containing Cole and more uniformed officers. Jessica eyed the property. It was much the same as Yvonne Christensen’s: a standard semi-detached house with strong, imposing double-glazed doors and windows.
Jessica headed along the path to the house and opened the letterbox. There were thick black bristles on the inside, obstructing any view. She tried to push them aside but could see nothing. She went to the bay window to the right, shielding her eyes from the glare to peer through. A thick net curtain meant she could see nothing.
Within a moment of calling Mary Keegan’s phone again, Jessica could hear a muffled ringtone from the inside of the house. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window and hung up.
She knew what they were going to find inside.
Jessica heard a vehicle screeching from somewhere nearby and, moments later, a large silver car pulled up in front of all three police cars. A man shot out from the driver’s side and ran along the pathway towards her. ‘Mr Keegan?’ she asked.
‘What’s wrong?’
Jessica ignored the immediate question. ‘Do you have your house keys?’
He was a few inches taller than Jessica, unshaven with carefully combed dark hair that was greying around his ears. He put his right hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a key ring. ‘Here. What’s going on?’
Jessica said nothing, but nodded to Cole and the waiting officers at the end of the path. Cole stood next to Mr Keegan as Jessica pulled a pair of thin blue rubber gloves out of her pocket. She unlocked the front door.
She headed inside, two uniformed officers following behind. Jessica called Mrs Keegan’s name but there was no answer.
The front door opened into what looked like a living room with a set of stairs immediately on her left. The room was spotlessly tidy with a neat pile of mail on top of a small table. At the other end of the room was a door that Jessica motioned the two officers towards as she went upstairs.
The stairs were wooden, each creaking noisily as Jessica stepped on it. They opened onto a hallway with three doors to choose from, two on her right and one straight ahead. Door one: the bathroom. As with the rest of the house, everything was immaculate, the white bath and shower cabinet gleaming as sunlight came through a small window.
Door two: a bedroom. Posters of footballers and girls in bikinis were on the walls, but the bunk beds directly across from the door were made up in pristine fashion, the corners tucked and the blue duvets perfectly central. There were a few action figures on cabinets and dressers around the room but otherwise it was as tidy as the other rooms. Jessica wondered if this was Scott’s room. Was this where he’d returned after torturing Nigel Collins? She pulled the door closed.
One of the policemen’s voices drifted up: ‘Clear here.’
After the final door, Jessica hoped she would be able to say the same. She rested her hand on the final handle, held her breath and closed her eyes. She pulled it down and pushed. She breathed out and opened her eyes.
‘No…’
A woman’s body was face down on the bed. Aside from the room’s colours, the scene was almost identical to what Jessica had witnessed at Claire Hogan’s flat. Instead of a sprawl of bleach-blonde hair discoloured by dark blood, there was long dark brown hair splayed in a similar way. The curtains were drawn and the room dim, but the matching bed linen was stained with blood.
Jessica didn’t need to see any more: four dead bodies were enough. She turned and pulled the gloves from her hands, walking down the stairs back to the front door. The other two officers were in the living room, both looking to her.
‘Don’t go up,’ she said. Then she added, ‘Someone call the Scenes of Crime team.’
Jessica took it upon herself to tell Paul Keegan there was a dead body upstairs on their bed, likely his wife. She spoke slowly and gently, but the man could only stare at her with his mouth open.
In any other circumstance his response, ‘Are you sure?’ would have been ridiculous. In this, it was heartbreaking. Some would have wanted to run past her into the house, race up the stairs and see for themselves. Paul Keegan didn’t move from the spot on his front lawn.
After a few moments, he stepped away, wide-eyed and bewildered as he straightened his shirt. He wiped his eyes but the tears hadn’t really stopped. ‘Was it him?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Houdini.’
T
hings had been moving quickly back
at the station. Jessica hadn’t given Paul Keegan a yes or a no. They weren’t certain who had killed his wife, even if they now knew ‘Houdini’ was most likely Nigel Collins.
Paul Keegan hadn’t wanted to go into the house but had agreed to an identification at the scene. It seemed harsh, but for completeness’ sake it was better it was done there. Grief did odd things to people. Some reacted like Sandra Prince and were unable to communicate. For others, like Paul Keegan, it seemed to have the opposite effect, driving them to remember things they might not normally have, and to think with a level-headedness they might not usually possess.
Jessica had a dilemma as to whether to reveal to Mr Keegan that his stepson Scott could in fact be indirectly responsible for what had happened. It didn’t seem fair to add more grief quite so quickly. Scott, it turned out, was at university in Liverpool, about to finish his first year studying forensic science.
‘His mum was so proud of him for turning things around,’ Paul Keegan said. ‘He used to be a bit of a tearaway before we got together. I think he had issues with his dad.’
He didn’t know the half of it. The irony of Scott learning how to deconstruct a body given what Shaun Hogan said he had done to Nigel Collins wasn’t lost on Jessica.
Another constable took notes as Paul Keegan spoke, but Jessica said nothing about Scott. There was an older stepson too, Steven, who was about to take his final accounting exam at Keele University. They were both due to return home in the next fortnight for their summer break.
Mary’s husband spoke clearly and simply, explaining that his wife was a nurse and had been working late shifts that week, starting at ten at night and finishing at six in the morning. She would arrive home as he was waking up to get ready to go to his own job with the council. They usually shared a cup of tea together, swapping notes on the previous twenty-four hours, before he went off to work and she went to bed.
‘I always hate it when she’s on nights,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t feel right sleeping alone.’
What he told them explained why the body had been found upstairs rather than in the living room, or anywhere else. It also indicated that the killer must have been watching the house to know the woman would be vulnerable – and sleeping – during the day.
Jessica could see the pattern. Yvonne Christensen had been the easiest. She lived alone and slept at night, like most people. If a person could get into the house without alerting her, she would be fast asleep and provide no threat.
Martin Prince was next in line because he was always on his own during the day – but perhaps would have been seen as more of a threat because he was a man?
Claire Hogan would have been slightly harder to plan, given that she lived on a main road and had a steady stream of visitors.
Then there was Mary Keegan, who was the hardest. Had the killer been watching and waiting long enough for her shift patterns to switch from earlies, to daytimes, then back to nights? If she was working similar hours to her husband, finding an opportunity to get her alone would have been a challenge.
The killer also didn’t seem too bothered whether he was targeting the father or mother, seemingly going for whomever was easier. He must have kept an eye on all the parents’ comings and goings over the past few weeks or months.
Jessica hadn’t done the checking herself, but the doors and windows of the Keegans’ house had been locked, as with the previous three victims. Officers had found Mary Keegan’s keys with her bag in the kitchen.
Alibis would be checked for Paul, Scott and Steven Keegan – the only people other than Mary with direct access to the house. Paul had given them the details of Scott and Steven’s real father, Mary’s former husband, too, but had told them that he was now remarried and living in Scotland.
Everything would be checked, but it would be a formality. The man they needed to find was Nigel Collins. Tying him to the four murders could prove more of a problem, given the lack of obvious evidence at the scenes. It was all circumstantial – but Jessica figured they would cross that bridge when they got to it.
After she had asked all of her questions and heard everything that was likely to be useful, Jessica asked if there was anything else Paul wanted to say.
Paul Keegan looked at her blankly. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Sometimes when we interview victims and relatives, there are things they might remember that seem normal at the time but, in retrospect, could throw new light on something. People they’ve noticed and so on. Silent phone calls, things like that.’
‘We’ve had a few problems with kids over the last few months, riding their bikes and being loud late at night and so on. You phone the police but nothing gets done.’
It was a story Jessica heard all too regularly. On the one hand, she knew how much of a blight it could be on people’s lives, but she was also aware the police couldn’t be everywhere. The irony was not lost on Jessica, considering how Mr Keegan’s stepson had seemingly behaved when he was younger.
‘I can only apologise,’ Jessica said. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Not really, no.’
Jessica thanked him for his time and then broke the news that they would have to arrest and speak to Scott. She reassured him his stepson was not suspected of any direct involvement with his mother’s death but couldn’t add any more than that. They were arranging for Scott and Steven to return to the area. Steven would be interviewed informally at a later date in regards to the killing of his mother, although he wasn’t a suspect. With the story breaking in the media tomorrow that their chief suspect was Nigel Collins, having Scott in custody would be a necessity. Even if the original assault case from almost six years before wasn’t reopened, they couldn’t risk him running.
Jonathan Prince and James Christensen had already been cautioned in relation to the unsolved assault all those years ago too. Things really were getting complicated, with Nigel Collins being both a victim and a suspect in two different crimes.
Back in the main part of the station, the search for Nigel Collins was moving, albeit slowly. The original list of forty-seven names had been brought down to three who were the right age. Two lived in the London area, while one was in a small town not too far from Nottingham. An officer was going to visit the Nigel Collins who lived in the town, but dealing with the Met Police in London was always trickier. Their structure was even more confusing than Greater Manchester’s and there were always enough jobsworths to pass an inquiry on to some other department. Anyone would think it was a different country they were trying to deal with. Eventually, Aylesbury had to become involved, and two sets of two constables were dispatched to talk to the other two Nigel Collinses.
It was only a matter of time until they were ruled out, Jessica thought. Whoever their killer was, it was someone who had been in the area very recently. Mary Keegan had been murdered that day, but must have been watched for at least a few weeks previously. Their Nigel Collins was unlikely to be someone who’d driven up from Nottingham or London and then travelled home. It felt like a local who knew the area, who knew the people.
Door-to-door enquiries were being made in the hope that someone on the Keegans’ street had seen someone acting suspiciously. An accurate e-fit could be their only hope of finding the suspect. The police did have a photograph on file from the original Nigel Collins’ case, but it was only the one of the poor kid’s battered face. It was no use for putting into a media campaign to find their prime suspect, as it was unclear from the photograph whether the victim was male or female.
The children’s home in which Nigel Collins had lived didn’t exist any longer, having been bulldozed a few years before. Cole had already set some officers on the task of tracking down some of the staff who would have been there at the same time as Nigel. Even if they got hold of the right people, it seemed unlikely they would stumble across a picture from his childhood they could use. At best it would be six years old – but Jessica doubted they would get anything, anyway.