Cut Short (16 page)

  'Was she raped?' Kathryn Gordon enquired curtly, her words cutting the air. 'She's intact,' the doctor replied. Geraldine swallowed, relieved beyond words. 'Seems he was just looking, or disturbed.'

  She couldn't have put up much of a fight. She looked as if a puff of wind would blow her over. Her hair was like straw, her clothes shabby. An old brown satchel lay nearby.

  'Anything in the bag?' Carter held up a dirty pink purse containing three pounds and eleven pence. Scrunched-up tissues, a mucky pot of concealer, a clogged mascara brush that had come loose from its tube, a pink comb and a small round mirror had been photographed and bagged. Geraldine was handed a school diary, dog-eared and covered in doodles. She flipped through it. On the inside page the dead girl had filled in her personal details.

Name Tiffany may

Address

Telephone No.

Mobile No.

Date of Birth 22nd march 1994 so get me a presant if your reading this

Doctor Docter membery

Dentist non

Next of Kin non

Geraldine calculated her age: thirteen. Unlucky for some. The rest of the book was filled with scribbles and doodles: 'TIFFANY 4 ROBBY', and other childish jottings. There was no timetable or record of any school work.

  'Who found her?' Merton asked.

  'Old chap, walking his dog early. We offered him a lift home but he said he'd wait in case he could help.' Kathryn Gordon pointed through the branches and creepers to an elderly man sitting on a bench a little way off. A small white and brown dog was jumping up and down by his side. The DCI nodded sombrely at Geraldine who ran the gauntlet of the brambles again, hands scratched and ankles blistered with nettle stings.

  'Remember to bring a machete next time, ma'am,' someone called out.

  'There won't be a next time,' she heard the DCI reply sharply, an edge of nerves behind her stern tone.

  They should have been prepared. He'd struck a second time in the same place and they'd let him slip away. Tiffany May, thirteen years old, had been in the park alone after dark. It was unforgivable. They should have done more to raise public awareness. Announcements had been broadcast on the local radio station and warnings had appeared in the papers but a child like Tiffany probably only watched American TV shows. They should have double-checked that schools were issuing regular reminders. Now they needed to act quickly to find out what the victim had been doing in the park, and whether she'd come alone.

  Geraldine sat down on the bench and introduced herself. The old man's name was Fraser Duncan, although his accent wasn't Scottish, but slightly Welsh.

  'I don't sleep well these days,' he wheezed. 'Not since my Jeanie passed away. All on my own, see. The girls come and visit, but they're not local. I get lonely. That's why they got me Betsy. For the company.' And the guilt, Geraldine thought, as the dog scrambled to its feet. 'Down, girl.' Betsy obediently sat at his feet again, her tail beating a tattoo on the ground. 'I often wake up early. I might get up and make a cup of tea, like I did today. And then Betsy, she nags for a walk, so I think, why not? Might as well keep the dog happy. I got no one else to think about.' He nodded at the shrubbery where the body was concealed. 'It wasn't me, Officer. I was with Betsy all the time.' Geraldine was too despondent to smile at the alibi. She pulled out her note book.

  Mr Duncan described his struggle to penetrate the dense shrubbery. 'I could hear her, see? Moaning and whimpering —'

  'She was still alive?' Geraldine sat forward.

  'What? Oh, the poor girl. No, I don't think so. I'm talking about Betsy.' Duncan Fraser could shed little light on the murder. The girl lay as he'd found her. 'I didn't touch anything. I seen enough shows on the telly to know not to tamper with the evidence at a crime scene. And Betsy, well, she's only a dog, when all's said and done. I pulled her off, soon as I saw what it was. I don't think she …' He wrinkled his nose and sighed. 'Then I used the mobile telephone to call you lot. Moira gave it me for Christmas. 'You take it with you any time you go out, dad,' she told me. 'You never know when you might need it.' Geraldine gave the old man a card. He refused a lift home. 'She needs the exercise,' he said, nodding at his dog as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  His dog frisking at his side, the old man began walking slowly away. Geraldine watched his stooped progress, sharp pity making her eyes water. She knew what it was to be alone.

  Peterson bounded up to her. 'The boss wants us to come back later and speak to the two gardeners,' he told her. 'It can't be coincidence, gov, both incidents in the same place. It's got to be something to do with the park.'

  They turned to watch the doors of the mortuary van open for the stretcher. A chilly morning mist hovered over the lake as Tiffany May set off on her penultimate journey.

28

Name

Jim was sensible. He changed into dry clothes before he lay down and closed his eyes, to remember his latest triumph. She wouldn't give him dirty thoughts again. He'd seen her walking quickly, hunched forward in the darkness and the driving rain, her collar turned right up. In the beating of the rain she hadn't heard him, moving swiftly behind her. He smiled. Inside his head it was happening again.

  'It's your turn,' Miss Elsie said.

  'You're it!' he mouthed, reaching for her arms. She was thin and he caught her easily, her skinny wrists gripped in one hand, the other slapped over her mouth. It was lucky for her he was holding tight or she might have had a nasty bump when her feet slipped on the wet mud. Her eyes bulged in her scrawny face. She looked like a bushbaby. That was funny because he was carrying her, like a baby, into the bushes. She didn't laugh when he told her, gabbling under his breath in his excitement. Above his hand he watched her eyes widen as he turned her round and flung her down. He never let go of her mouth. He clutched her throat fiercely, shaking her until her fingers stopped scrabbling at his sleeves and her head flopped.

  He shut his eyes and counted to ten because that was the rule. He had to whisper in case they were listening. She was staring up at him, ugly and cross. He didn't care. Her flimsy grey skirt had lifted up at the front when she fell. Curiously he pushed it up as far as he could. Through her tights he was surprised to see tiny flowers. Wondering, he pushed his hand between her legs. It was warm and damp. Encouraged, he tugged at the top of her tights. Her knickers came down with them. The strip of hair felt scratchy. He tried to push the thin thighs apart but they were held together by her tights. She smelled of wee and that was dirty. He wished he hadn't touched her. Rage exploded in his head. It wasn't fair. It was all right for her. The rain would wash her clean. But she'd made him dirty with her wee. She knew he didn't have a washbasin so he couldn't get properly clean. It was all her fault. He smacked her head and the sound echoed in his ears, frightening him.

  Without pausing to cover her up, he fled, brushing wet leaves from his legs and chest as he ran along the path. He was careful not to touch anything with his dirty hand. He held it stiffly so it wouldn't touch his body. He was going to scrub it and scrub it until it no longer smelt of wee. He noticed a figure in the distance, across the lake, but he kept on running. He was sobbing, his heart thumping so fast it was difficult to breathe but he ran and ran. It wasn't safe in the park any more. It was all her fault, the stranger who'd asked him about a music shop. He'd done his best not to speak to her, and now she'd gone and spoiled everything. He had to find her and shut her up before she told anyone else about him.

  Back in the shed, he picked up the diary again. He'd find her because he was clever. Wednesday, 26 September, was in the diary. That was the day he'd seen Angela Waters in the park. Among the notes and numbers he saw '
10.00 teacher
Heather Spencer (Mrs).'
He thought until his eyes ached because he knew it was a clue. The papers said Angela Waters died at about nine thirty.
Teacher Heather Spencer
(Mrs)
was going to the music shop at ten, so she would have been in the park, on her way, at half past nine. That was when she'd asked him where the music shop was. He knew her name. He felt a huge rush of cleverness in his head and laughed.

  'Use your brain,' Miss Elsie said. He stared at the page as though it might tell him where to find her. At the top of the page it said '
9.00 Shelley Wigan (work experience) Redhill School'.
He knew about work experience because he'd done it. They said it was going to last a week. But after the first day, they told him he didn't have to go back again. He didn't mind. He didn't like work experience.

  They sent him to a bakery. He had to wear a white hat and a white coat. He had to wear the hat at all times, in case his hair fell out. A woman told him and she said it again because it was important. He didn't want to go back there. He didn't want his hair to fall out. They told him to be careful not to burn his finger. The teachers said it was good for him but he thought it was stupid. He didn't want his hair to fall out and he didn't want to burn his finger.

  
Shelley Wigan (work experience)
must be at school because she was doing work experience. He grasped at an idea. He kept thinking he understood something and then it went out of his brain. He knew the thinking bit of his brain didn't always work, but this was important.

  Miss Elsie told him to think hard. 'Stay on the topic,' she said, 'and you can work out the answer all by yourself.' It went together, like a jigsaw where all the pieces fitted in their holes. His teacher had been to see him at the bakery to check he was being good.
Teacher Heather Spencer (Mrs)
had gone to see
Shelley Wigan (work experience)
at the music shop to check she was being good. It all made sense.

  Miss Elsie smiled. 'Clever boy,' she said. 'I knew you could do it.'

  Now he knew where to find her. She was a teacher at Redhill School. He'd seen a school near the park but that wasn't the right school. He had to find a school called Redhill. He wondered if it was on a red hill but that didn't help. He asked a girl in school uniform where to find Redhill School. She shook her head and ran away. She looked scared but he'd only asked her where to find a school. It wasn't a bad question. He hadn't asked her to get in a car with him. He hadn't offered her sweets.

  He tried again and a boy told him. 'It's the other side of the park, innit?' Jim walked across the park but when he got to the other side he couldn't see Redhill School. He didn't get angry. Instead, he had another clever idea. It was better to be clever than angry. He came back early in the morning and waited until he saw some children going to school. He followed them. They didn't see him because he was clever. He was going to find Heather Spencer.

  He found the school on the corner of a busy street. The main entrance was on a bus route. There was a big sign on the fence: REDHILL SCHOOL. He'd found where she worked. There was another way in round the corner. He watched and waited. No one saw him. She never went in the main entrance, so he stood round the corner and waited again. He was a good spy. It could be his job. No one knew he was there, watching. He was 'it' and no one could catch him. It was his turn.

  He saw the stranger who'd spoken to him in the park. She walked quickly up the side street and into the school. She didn't see him watching her. Now he could move on to the next stage of his plan. It was easy to be clever. He was clever. Miss Elsie said so. The police had found Angela Waters and written about her in the paper. They didn't know about the other one. He didn't want them to find her or he'd be in trouble again. But they would never find her because he'd hidden her so well. All he had to do was find Heather Spencer (Mrs) and he would be safe to carry on his work. Miss Elsie would be pleased with him. He was doing God's work.

  'Cleanse me from ev'ry sin and set me free,' he sang to himself and smiled.

29

Gardeners

Peter Lamprey had worked as a gardener at Lyceum Park for seventeen years. Blue eyes sparkled in a face weathered from decades spent outdoors. He seemed to take the two women's deaths as a personal affront.

  'I never saw anything like it,' he told them, 'not in my park. In all the seventeen years I've done here, I never saw anything like this. I'm sorry I can't help you track down whoever it was did for those poor girls, but I wasn't here last Wednesday. Never here on Wednesdays. We do Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays here. Wednesdays is a day off. I do other jobs on Wednesdays. So I wasn't here.' His gaze seemed drawn to the far trees. 'There was no one here on Wednesday. Never is. So you can just let me get on now. I've got work to do. Always busy this time of year.' He turned to go.

  'Mr Lamprey,' Geraldine said, 'we don't want to keep you from your work. But we do need to eliminate you from our enquiries. This is a murder investigation and it would be best for everyone if you co-operated with us by answering a few more questions.'

  Lamprey turned back and inclined his head. 'Go on then,' he said. 'Ask away.'

  'Can you tell us where you were last Wednesday morning?'

  'Yes I can. I started over at Mrs Merriott's this week, weeding beds, raking leaves …' He reeled off a list of chores.

  Peterson interrupted him. 'Can you give us her address?'

  The old man scratched his head. 'It's Wisley Street, one of the big houses on the West Woolsmarsh estate. It's the one next to the letterbox, with a magnolia in the front garden. Doesn't look much at this time of year, but it's a lovely tree. You want to see it in bloom.'

  'What time were you there?'

  Lamprey told them he started at Mrs Merriott's about eight thirty. 'She's up early, that one. Always has a cup of tea waiting. We call it our breakfast. She likes a bit of a chat. They all do. I look after the gardens for a few old ladies on the estate and they all like to stop and chat. I see to the gardens and do a few odd jobs outdoors. Fixing the fences, and the gates when they slip and start to bang in the wind. I don't work inside. Only in the gardens.'