Cut Short (17 page)

  'What time did you leave Mrs Merriott's?'

  He shook his head. 'Must've been just before ten. Next one was old Mrs Creakey. She makes me tea at ten.'

  'And you were at Mrs Merriott's until then?'

  'Yes.'

  'Have you seen anyone unusual hanging around the park lately?' Geraldine asked.

  'We see some odd characters in the park, yes.'

  'Have you seen a man with a scar on his upper lip?'

  'A scar? No. No one with a scar, not that comes to mind. But I'm usually seeing to the plants. I don't pay much attention to people passing through.'

  Geraldine frowned. 'Anyone unusual? Any strangers?' she persisted. There was a pause.

  'Was a tramp,' he replied thoughtfully. Geraldine waited but Lamprey was silent.

  'Can you describe him?'

  'Just a tramp. Dirty.'

  'Where did he sleep?'

  'Don't know.'

  Geraldine asked if Peter Lamprey had a coat. He looked down and held his arms out to display his navy parka. Geraldine asked if he owned another coat, or a scarf, and he shook his head to both questions.

  'What do I need another coat for?' he asked. 'This one not good enough then?' He scowled at her. 'It'll do well enough.'

  'What can you tell us about Terence Tillotson?' Peterson asked.

  Lamprey shrugged his wiry shoulders. 'He's only been here a few weeks,' he replied, 'and if he lasts a few more it'll be a miracle. Work shy, that one.' The two detectives exchanged a glance.

  'When exactly did he start working here?' Peterson continued.

  Lamprey pursed his lips, thinking. 'Second week in September,' he said at last. 'He started that Monday and if you ask me, I was better off on my own. Never had any trouble here until he came along. Nothing like this ever happened before. He turns up and suddenly some young woman goes and gets herself murdered. He's got an eye for the girls, that boy has. I'm not saying he did it, mind, only it looks suspicious, if you ask me.' He narrowed his eyes and spat on the damp earth. Geraldine didn't react. She knew Peterson had noted the coincidence. Geraldine thanked Lamprey and asked him to let her know if he thought of anything else. He nodded, his head turned away, his thoughts already back among the trees and shrubs.

  The second gardener, Terry Tillotson, told them he'd lived in the area all his life and had been working in Lyceum Park for three weeks. Geraldine studied his cheerful young face. He claimed to be twenty-four but barely looked old enough to be out of school. He was blond, with eyelashes any girl would covet and dazzling blue eyes. He was wearing a hooded grey jacket.

  Before Geraldine could begin, Tillotson spoke. 'I reckon I saw someone, last night,' he told them. 'About six o'clock.'

  'Why didn't you report it?'

  The boy shrugged, nonchalant. 'Guess I didn't think of it.'

  Geraldine wondered what else he was keeping back. He was probably up to some scam in the park, meeting young girls, or dealing drugs. She wondered if it could be something more vicious. He'd admitted being in the park the previous evening, when Tiffany May was killed. He'd been working late to make up his hours, he explained, sweeping the paths and emptying the bins. It was mainly litter this time of year.

  'Not been bad the last week. Quietish, like. Pete reckons it's because of that dead girl. It's keeping them away, specially the kids. They're the ones drop most of the litter.' He was little more than a kid himself. He'd finished his work and was locking his equipment in the shed, when he realised he was missing his litter spike. He retraced his steps and found it near the pond. It was past knocking-off time but he sat on for a bit and had a smoke.

  'Go on,' Geraldine said quietly.

  Tillotson told them he'd been enjoying the quiet of the evening. 'Had the place to myself. It was nice. Like it was my own private estate.' It was a starry night, Terence said. He was interested in stars. He knew all about the 'consolations' up there. Geraldine didn't believe that for a moment. He'd finished his smoke, stubbed it out carefully, and tossed his cigarette butt into the nearest bin on his way back to the shed.

  'Very public-spirited,' Peterson sneered.

  'If you had to go round collecting up all the fag ends people leave lying around, you'd be careful. And it's not only fag ends, I'm telling you.' While he was traipsing across the sodden grass in his wellies on the far side of the lake, he'd spotted a figure in the moonlight, hurrying along the path in the direction of the High Street. It was too dark to make out much, but he was sure it was a man. He described how the figure had 'a dead arm' hanging limply at his side as he loped along.

  'Was it him? The Woolsmarsh Strangler?'

  Geraldine gave a noncommittal grunt. 'Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr Tillotson?'

  'No.' He shook his head vigorously.

  'Where were you last Wednesday morning?'

  'Me?' He looked surprised. 'I was at home. Don't work Wednesdays. It's a day off.' Peterson noted down his address.

  'Can anyone confirm you were there last Wednesday morning?' Geraldine asked. She saw a glint in the gardener's eyes.

  'My girl, Melanie Rogers. Ron Rogers and Lynda Clare's daughter,' he boasted. They couldn't rule him out, but somehow Geraldine doubted if he was their man. She gave Tillotson a card in case he remembered anything else and thanked him for his co-operation, and he swaggered off, whistling jauntily.

  'He's fit,' Geraldine remarked.

  'He's only twenty-four, gov,' Peterson laughed. Geraldine turned away. Inside her head she still felt the same age as the sergeant, who hadn't reached thirty. It was galling to be reminded that he viewed her as older. The difference between them couldn't be much more than five years. Without thinking she raised her hand and smoothed the lines on her forehead, making a mental note to avoid frowning. And smiling. And raising her eyebrows. With a sigh she switched her thoughts back to the case.

  'What did you make of the wounded man?' Geraldine asked Peterson as they walked back to the car. The DS shook his head.

  'I don't buy it, gov.'

  She nodded. 'He made the whole thing up, didn't he? But do you really think
he
could be our killer?' It seemed unlikely.

  'He's certainly here a lot, I'll grant you that,' Peterson conceded cautiously.

  'That's because he works here.'

  'Which gives him the opportunity, but no more than anyone else walking in the park. It's not as if it's locked at night. I hardly think he'd murder two girls right here, so soon after he arrived. But why put himself in the frame like that?' Peterson asked.

  'In case he was seen? He might think that by telling us he was here he's making himself look innocent. Or perhaps we caught him off guard? He's got the grey jacket. It fits. And you said yourself his story of a man with a disabled arm is fabricated.'

  Peterson nodded. 'He didn't strike me as stupid. Immature, yes, and dishonest, but not a violent type. Then again, it could be an impulse he can't control. Or maybe he just thinks he can get away with it.'

  The murderer
is
getting away with it, Geraldine thought angrily. 'Still,' she said, 'it's a coincidence, isn't it, his starting work here just two weeks before Angela Waters was killed? And he's lying about something. Could be just another bored youngster with a lively imagination, but let's check him out carefully.'

  There was something shady about Terence Tillotson, but he struck her as an improbable suspect. Whichever way she looked at it, she doubted that such a good looking boy would attack strange women in the park where he worked, when he could easily pick up girls further away from home. Peterson agreed.

  'Just because someone's around a lot, it doesn't necessarily mean they're up to something,' she went on. The DS scowled and Geraldine remembered having heard a couple of WPCs gossiping in the toilets. They'd fallen silent as soon as Geraldine came out of her cubicle, but she'd heard enough. Someone had been visiting Peterson's house while he was out at work.

  'Turned out it wasn't only the heating he was servicing,' one of the WPCs had said, erupting with laughter. She'd caught sight of Geraldine in the mirror, and fallen silent.

  Geraldine lowered her eyes. If Peterson was having personal problems, she'd have to tread carefully. They couldn't afford to allow anything to distract them from the case.

  Later that evening she reread all her notes, alone with a bottle of chilled white wine. Tillotson's statement was puzzling. A man couldn't hold a girl down and strangle her with only one arm. It didn't make sense, unless he'd been injured during the attack, but forensics had found no evidence of a struggle. There were no scrapings of skin under Tiffany May's fingernails, no blood, just dirt and grease. Then again, if Tillotson had intended to mislead them, he would surely have come up with a plausible description of an imaginary figure. Geraldine closed her eyes and a picture of a man began to form in her mind. He didn't understand English, or couldn't hear well, or he disliked being spoken to. He had an injured arm and slunk about in the park waiting for solitary women. She opened her eyes. The arm didn't fit. She bit her lip in frustration. There were too many unanswered questions.

30

Carer

The atmosphere was tense at the morning briefing.

  'John Drew is out of the frame for Tiffany May,' Kathryn Gordon said. She nodded at Merton who stood up and cleared his throat.

  'Drew was involved in a brawl on Saturday night outside the Dog and Duck in Wilberforce Street,' he said. Several local officers shook their heads, murmuring darkly. The Dog was a notorious trouble spot on Saturday nights. 'He was admitted to Woolsmarsh General at eleven fifteen on Saturday night,' Merton's voice droned on. He glanced down at his notes. 'Concussion. He lost consciousness at the incident and was taken in for observation.' Everyone knew where this was leading. Merton carried on remorselessly. 'They did a scan yesterday afternoon and kept him in for observation. They're still waiting for the results. So Drew's out of the frame for the murder of Tiffany May.'

  'Bugger,' a voice exclaimed loudly. Someone else muttered a weary crack about a scan finding nothing between Drew's ears but no one smiled.

  'We'll keep an eye on Drew,' the DCI said. 'It's possible Angela Waters and Tiffany May were killed by different people.' Everyone knew that was grasping at straws.

  'One step forward, two steps back,' someone mumbled. They'd lost their suspect. The atmosphere was subdued as they set off on their day's tasks.

  Geraldine parked the car on the dilapidated Chartwell Estate. Identical four and five storey brick blocks hemmed them in on all sides. Although the air outside was fresh, she felt claustrophobic and her eyes searched for the driveway that led back to the road. The flat they wanted was located in one corner. A narrow strip of grass grew feebly by the entrance to each block, and someone had planted a few daffodils in front of Tiffany May's doorway. Geraldine wondered who had taken the trouble to put them there; someone young enough to feel that life still held the promise of something better. She scrutinised the motley assortment of vehicles parked there. Next to the unmarked police car a filthy white van displayed a two-year-old tax disc. On the other side, a rusty red Skoda sported a slashed tyre. Peterson raised an eyebrow and she shook her head. Better not advertise their business. He put the police notice back inside the car and closed the door.

  Tiffany May's flat was on the ground floor. They heard the bell ring, but no one came to the door. It was eleven o'clock. By now everyone would have gone out for the day. No one had reported the girl missing. If Geraldine had disappeared overnight when she was thirteen, her mother would have been on the phone to the police station at once, demanding urgent action, but Tiffany's absence had gone unnoticed. A mother so careless of her young daughter's whereabouts was probably blind drunk or too far gone to worry about anything beyond her next fix.

  'Let's try the school,' she muttered. Peterson looked relieved as he climbed back in the car. They hadn't seen a soul, had heard no sound, no muffled television, no distant music. Driving off the estate, she glanced in her rear mirror and glimpsed indistinct figures emerging from doorways and passages. The residents had been watching them. At least one of them probably knew exactly what had happened to Tiffany May.

  'Someone there knows something,' the DS muttered at her side, as though reading her thoughts.

  The school resembled an abandoned prison block, with cracked window frames and a fenced in concrete yard littered with gum and cans, scraps of paper and scrunched up crisp packets. The head teacher, Mrs Rutherford, was a harassed-looking woman, prematurely grey. She acknowledged them with an air of resignation.

  'Let's get this over with quickly. I have a million and one things to attend to this morning,' her eyes said. She gasped silently when Geraldine explained the reason for their visit.

  'Tiffany?' Mrs Rutherford repeated, as though the police had mistaken the name. 'Tiffany May? Are you sure?'

  'No one's reported her missing. Did anyone telephone the school about her absence?' Geraldine enquired. 'We called at her home, but there was no reply.'

  'There wouldn't be,' Mrs Rutherford replied. 'Mother's incapacitated. Virtually bedridden. Tiffany took care of her. Tiffany is – was – a carer …' She broke off, eyes glittering with tears or anger, it was impossible to tell which.

  'Carer?' Peterson echoed.

  'That's why there was no answer at home. Tiffany's mother can't get to the door. She doesn't get out of bed. Clinical depression. She has bouts in hospital, but they always send her home. Social services keep an eye. Apart from that, Tiffany looks – looked after her mother. Mother's comatose, on a good day. So, no. No one at home to report her missing.' Mrs Rutherford sat silent for a moment, staring with a vacant expression. When she spoke again, her tone was brisk. 'Knock next door. They have a key. Either side. They'll let you in. You'll need to tell her, won't you? But don't expect too much. She probably won't react and if she does want to speak, you'll need to be patient. I suppose you'll notify social services?'