Cut Short (15 page)

  'You only heard his wife's side of it.'

  'She says he's pathetic. He's going nowhere,' Melanie said, with an eloquent glance at Terry, but he just threw his head back and laughed.

  'He's the leader of the council, for fuck's sake,' he spluttered. 'What more does she want?' Melanie sighed and followed him into the bedroom.

*

Ironically, since his wife had threatened to leave him, Jonathon Masters' life had become more complicated than ever. Of course, it would happen at a crucial time in his political career with the local council elections only a few weeks away. Julie couldn't have made her announcement at a worse time. It was typical of her.

  'I don't know what you're getting so worked up about,' his sister responded unsympathetically when he told her. 'She's been threatening to leave you for ages. It's time she made up her mind to pack her bags and go. You don't need her. Just think what your life'll be like without that self obsessed bitch driving you mad.' She offered him a cigarette and lit one for herself. 'It's not as if she makes you happy. Anyone can see that. She only married you because she thought you'd end up in the senior partner's chair. Money, that's all she's after. Tight arsed bitch.' She grimaced, and blew smoke at him. 'If you want my advice, get a quick divorce. You'll meet someone else, Jon. Someone who cares about you.' She made it sound simple, but she didn't know his wife, who had a way of making his life difficult.

  Much as he courted publicity, the last thing Jonathon wanted in the run up to an election was his name splashed all over the papers for the wrong reasons. He could under stand his sister's annoyance. It wasn't as if he'd behaved badly. The situation was entirely of Julie's making. She had nothing to complain of in his conduct and had gained considerable personal wealth through their marriage, milked him shamelessly in fact. But he couldn't entirely blame her. She hadn't always been like that. Julie denied that his infertility was the cause of her resentment towards him, but he wasn't sure he believed her. It wasn't his fault, but he still felt guilty for not giving her the child she so desperately wanted, and Julie had been quick to take full advantage of his consequent generosity. In spite of her coldness towards him, he couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

  His sister was right of course. If he was honest, his marriage had been over for a long time. But before he could start discussing a divorce, he had to get through the election, and Julie was well aware of his precarious position. The problem was that Jonathan had declared himself a passionate champion of traditional family values, and a large proportion of his support came from older women. By orchestrating a smear campaign against his twice divorced rival he'd managed to persuade the voters that a steady, married man was more trustworthy than a fly-by-night divorcé. To be publicly exposed as a hypocrite could mean the end of his political career – and Jonathon had worked too hard to give up without a fight.

  He knew how important it was to remain on friendly terms with the media.
The Woolsmarsh Chronicle
was the most influential paper in the area. He wined and dined the editor carefully, aware that his strategy might prove counterproductive. The editor was a hard-headed journalist who could smell a desperate man from a hundred yards, but the Woolsmarsh Strangler was keeping the press busy and the editor only wanted to know what Jonathon was planning to do to safeguard the streets. It gave Jonathon a little breathing space while he tried to manage his wife. He even agreed to consider her outrageous claim on the house.

  'It's with my solicitors,' he told her, careful not to put anything in writing.

  Julie was in the dining room when he got home.

  'Had a good day?' he asked. She didn't answer. A roll of wallpaper lay on the floor at her feet and he went over to see what she was doing. A length of paper, about six feet by three, was sellotaped to the tablecloth to prevent it curling up. Julie was writing on it in thick black marker pen. 'Close the park', he read aloud over her shoulder as she finished. 'What's this all about?'

  Still with her back to him, Julie told him about her campaign. 'Since the police don't seem to be doing anything about it.'

  'Oh, the police.'

  'And the council,' she added sharply. 'This is a perfectly legitimate political protest, and I wouldn't try to stop it, if I were you.' She swung round to face him, eyes blazing angrily. 'That would be an interesting story for your precious newspapers, wouldn't it? The councillor who doesn't believe in free speech.' Jonathon sighed. That ridiculous accusation was just the sort of nonsense the papers found irresistible. Of course he believed in free speech. He just wanted his wife to keep her mouth shut until he was re-elected. Thank goodness the papers were preoccupied with the Woolsmarsh Strangler, he reflected, and was instantly ashamed of himself for such a wicked thought.

26

Row

It was unusual for Geraldine to oversleep, especially when she was working, but the long drive to see her sister on Sunday had taken its toll on her. She had no time for breakfast and rushed to the station, arriving in a panic with barely five minutes to spare. As she was quickly checking the latest updates, Peterson strolled over to enquire about her weekend. He was holding the remains of a bacon roll in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. Geraldine was starving, and desperate for her morning shot of caffeine. The mingled smell of bacon and coffee goaded her unbearably, but the briefing was about to begin and there was no time to dash to the canteen. She snapped at the sergeant just as the DCI walked past them. Peterson's eyes widened in surprise and Geraldine instantly regretted her flash of temper, not only because the DCI must have overheard her. It wasn't the sergeant's fault she'd driven for two hours to visit a six-year-old who hadn't even noticed she was there, and then two hours back again through driving rain. Before she had a chance to explain, Kathryn Gordon spoke.

  'We're five days into the investigation and I don't need to remind you we're no closer to making an arrest,' the DCI said. 'With every day that passes the trail grows a little colder. We can't afford to waste another moment. I expect everyone to give this case their undivided attention. We'll work round the clock if necessary. No leave till we nail him.' Her face was grimly determined.

  Geraldine struggled to clear her head and focus on the briefing. Not much had come up over the weekend.

  'We're going to recheck everything. Don't forget this could be a first offence,' the DCI concluded.

  'Don't you think there'd be a record of assault at least, ma'am?' someone asked.

  Kathryn Gordon shrugged her shoulders wearily. 'All I'm saying is, don't fall back on stereotypes. John Drew remains our prime suspect, but we need to keep an open mind.' There was a general sigh of agreement. 'Carter, check with forensics again. I agree it's unlikely, but it's quite possible this could be the work of a first offender. Every criminal has to start somewhere.' Glancing round the room, Geraldine saw that several officers were nodding their heads.

  'No peace for the wicked,' Carter muttered as they broke up.

  The DCI always seemed to have her feelings under tight control. Geraldine thought wretchedly about her own outburst. She never normally lost her temper. It wasn't as though she'd even been angry with Peterson. She glanced up and saw him and Sarah Mellor conferring together. As she lowered her eyes, she heard Sarah laughing. They were probably talking about her. Peterson was a good sergeant and Geraldine had lost her temper with him for no reason. Much as Geraldine regretted her behaviour, she wasn't sure how to put matters right. She told herself it wasn't cowardice or pride that held her back from apologising, but a proper sense of her dignity as his superior officer.

  As the team dispersed, Kathryn Gordon asked Geraldine to follow her into her office, which was too small to fit her desk and filing cabinets comfortably. Geraldine noticed the drawers weren't labelled and wondered how anyone else would be able to find anything in there if the DCI were away from her desk. A window was open despite the cold, but a faint whiff of a familiar aroma permeated the chilly air. It seemed the DCI didn't restrict her drinking to the pub. Geraldine hovered as the other woman sat down.

  'Is there a problem with DS Peterson?' Kathryn Gordon asked. 'Well?'

  'No, ma'am.'

  'It takes a certain sort of woman to cope with the pressure of serious crime investigations,' the DCI continued.

  'Like you, ma'am?' She hadn't intended to sound impertinent.

  Kathryn Gordon glared. 'Don't try to be like me, Geraldine,' she retorted. She took a deep breath and gestured for Geraldine to sit down. 'We have a responsibility towards our fellow officers, Geraldine, particularly to those younger and less experienced than we are.' Geraldine wondered which of them Kathryn Gordon was talking to. 'This is a difficult investigation. Murders are. You know that. We're all feeling tired and frustrated. But we can't allow our feelings to work against us. We have to pull together, because we're a team. And if we're a team …' She paused, losing her place in a familiar speech.

  'Yes ma'am.'

  'Am I making myself clear?'

  'Yes, ma'am. I get the message.'

  'All I did was have a few words with a DS,' Geraldine grumbled to Carter later as they sat over lunch in the canteen. 'He wasn't bothered. And she goes and makes a fuss about it. Gave me a bloody lecture about working as a team. It's all right for her to take a pop, but if I say anything to a DS, I as good as get a warning. It's outrageous. The DCI's definitely got it in for me.' Carter began to remonstrate but Merton joined them and the conversation moved on. The knowledge that she was being petty did nothing to improve Geraldine's mood, but she wasn't alone in her agitation. Everyone was growing edgy as time passed without any new leads, and tension turned to anxiety.

  The media weren't helping. Five days had passed since Angela Waters' murder, and some of the papers were already asking questions.
The Woolsmarsh Chronicle
had been openly hostile.

Blonde Angela Waters (22) was murdered in broad daylight beside a children's playground.
What are the police doing to safeguard our children?

They published their questions without bothering to look for an answer, interested only in sensational headlines, not the arduous daily slog of the investigation. Most crime detection work was too dull to be newsworthy, so they filled their pages with hysterical claptrap, aping the worst campaigns of the national tabloids.

  'Who killed Angela Waters?' the paper screamed at her. Geraldine wished she knew. The headlines were useful in raising public awareness and it was true the articles might encourage a witness to come forward, but she resented their ill-informed criticism of the police. Journalists thought they could print anything with impunity. At least the
Chronicle
had put the picture of the man with a scar on the front page.

  Suddenly aware she was hungry, Geraldine glanced at her watch. It was six o'clock and she hadn't eaten since one. Wearily she packed her bag and made her way home where she spent a miserable evening studying reports. After midnight she finally sank into bed, hoping she wouldn't be disturbed by nightmares.

  It wasn't long before she found herself wishing she
had
been woken by a bad dream.

27

Witness

Geraldine groped for the snooze button, but it wasn't the alarm.

  Merton's thin voice slapped her awake. 'We've got another one.'

  She switched to speakerphone. 'Go on!' she yelled, tugging at her trousers, fumbling with buttons, and scanning the floor for her shoes.

  'DCI thinks it's the strangler.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'Young girl. Blonde.'

  'How young?'

  'Twelve? Thirteen? Approached from behind. Probably strangled, if the last one was anything to go by.'

  'What do we know?'

  'Not a lot. Possible sexual assault. Pathologist's on his way. Millard.' Merton sounded out of breath, as though he was running.

  Geraldine grabbed her keys. 'I'm on my way. Where to?'

  'Lyceum Park.'

  Geraldine gasped. The forensic tent had only just been taken down in the park after Angela Waters' murder. She felt as though she was dreaming as she passed between tall Gothic gateposts to the scene where a second body had been discovered within a week. It was barely daylight. Trees looked black and menacing in the background and the lake gleamed coldly in the early morning light. It was a setting for a cheap horror movie. She half expected to hear sinister music as she walked along the path. By the time she reached the scene, the Murder Investigation Team had taken over a large patch of scrubby grass beside the children's playground. Peterson was already there and Geraldine nodded at him glumly. The DCI was standing by the catering truck, her gloved fingers wrapped round a steaming polystyrene cup, flanked by the two other DIs. Carter gave Geraldine a brief nod and Merton glowered at her as she hurried over to join them. They stood watching as a second white forensic van drew up. They collected their suits, masks, and gloves. A dog handler jumped down from one of the people carriers, and joined the throng around the catering truck.

  'Don't put your overshoes on until you reach the tent,' the girl dispensing suits called out. Scrambling through muddy undergrowth, bent nearly double to protect her head from overhanging branches, Geraldine could see why. Brambles and protruding roots would have destroyed their flimsy overshoes before they were even near the tent.

  Her skin looked very white. Lights flashed like buzzing insects as she was photographed from every angle. Geraldine doubted if the dead girl had ever received this much attention when she was alive. Her grey skirt was pulled up to her stomach, tights and knickers half-way down her thighs. A skinny torso made the exposed area of pubic hair look obscene, and unutterably sad. She was only a child. Gloom hung like a pall over the white-coated activity. With a time of death around seven p.m. she had been lying there overnight, not reported missing yet. Her absence wouldn't be noticed now until the day began. It was only six thirty. Geraldine gazed down at the pointed little face and hoped her last moments had been painless, not degrading.