Cut Short (26 page)

Dear Aunty Geraldine

Thank you for my birthday present. With love from Chloe

Geraldine wondered if Chloe even knew what present Geraldine had given her, among the pile of gifts she'd received. Stuffing the card and pink envelope in her pocket, she hurried along the corridor to the back door.

  A fierce wintry sun was shining through biting wind. Overhead, the sky loomed dark and heavy. Geraldine thrust her hands into her pockets and hurried over to her garage. As she drew near, her eyes widened in dismay. The lock appeared to have been tampered with during the night. The handle was hanging loose, the new paintwork around it scratched. Careful not to touch the damaged lock, Geraldine nudged the bottom of the door with her foot and pushed. The door swung open. Her alarm subsided as she saw her car was still inside.

  'No harm done,' she muttered, but her relief was short lived. A message had been scratched on the back of the car. In spidery, uncontrolled letters, the word was clearly legible:
FILTH
. Her stalker had forced his way into her garage. The implication was clear: his next step might be to force his way into her flat. 'No harm done,' she repeated unsteadily under her breath. It was just silly scare tactics. If the intruder intended to harm her, he would have attacked her by now, not alerted her with warnings. She told herself she was perfectly safe. There was no reason to take any of this seriously. She'd have to change her car, that was all. She couldn't drive around in a vehicle marked like that. But her hands were shaking so much by the time she climbed in that she struggled to insert the key in the ignition.

  Geraldine prided herself on her powers of concentration, but driving into work that morning she found she couldn't focus on the case. Every time she blinked, the crudely scrawled message flickered into her mind:
FILTH.
Locking her car, she averted her eyes from the ugly scratch.

  Peterson, arriving at the same time, spotted it straight away and whistled. 'What happened there?'

  Geraldine was startled by the animosity in his voice. 'Nothing.' It was a stupid response. Peterson stood blocking her way. She waited for a second in silence. 'Excuse me,' she said and sidestepped to pass him. For an instant, she thought he was going to take a sideways step to block her path again but he didn't move. She hurried inside, utterly humiliated. Peterson had been genuinely angry, resentful at having to answer to a senior officer who clearly wasn't in control of her own life, let alone her work. Geraldine bit her lip and wished the sergeant would just mind his own business.

*

Peterson watched the DI studying her screen, unaware she was being observed. Geraldine was a conscientious officer, maybe a brilliant one, and he bridled at the possibility that someone was threatening her personal safety. He wasn't a man to look the other way when confronted with a challenging situation and, in any case, harassment of a DI was an attack on the whole team so he was involved whether she liked it or not. He pushed his chair back suddenly, his mind made up. It took him a few seconds to discover the number of the caretaker in her block of flats, slightly longer to break through his reserve. Geraldine had told the caretaker the police wouldn't be interested in the graffiti that had appeared, first on the fence, then on her garage door. The caretaker didn't seem to know about the damage to her car.

  'And you've got no idea who's behind it?' Peterson persisted.

  The caretaker grunted. 'That's your job to find out, isn't it?' he said gruffly. 'I've been busy enough cleaning up the mess.'

  'That's fine,' Peterson replied confidently. 'You can leave it to us to find out who's behind it all and make sure it doesn't happen again. Just tell me one thing: have any deliveries been made to Geraldine Steel's flat?'

  'Deliveries?'

  'Yes. Has anything been delivered recently?'

  'I'm not saying any more. You can ask her what that was,' the caretaker replied, inadvertently answering Peterson's question. 'I thought you said you work with her.' He hung up. Peterson narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. The caretaker wasn't the only one harbouring suspicions.

The Incident Room was quiet. Officers were studying docu ments or discussing theories before the morning briefing. The phones had not yet begun ringing but it wouldn't be long before they started. The public were increasingly agitated about their safety. Children were being escorted to and from school, and women were reluctant to go out alone. The press had been quick to take advantage of the situation. They claimed the public had a right to know the truth, but some of their sensational headlines smacked of deliberate attempts to whip up hysteria. The DCI had decided to give a press briefing in an attempt to placate the press and ensure their reports were at least reasonably accurate and she wanted Geraldine present to help scupper rumours that the police were ignoring women's fears. With a female DCI heading the investigation, and a female DI on the team, it would be hard to level accusations of police misogyny.

  Geraldine had dressed with care, still mortified at her recent photograph in the
Woolsmarsh Chronicle
. 'WOMEN DEMAND ACTION', the headline declared above a picture of a group of well-groomed women brandishing placards. By contrast, Geraldine could be seen skulking in the bottom right hand corner of the picture, looking as though she'd been dragged out of bed. Even in the grainy black and white picture her make-up appeared smudged around panda eyes as she stared into the camera.

  'They still cling to their bloody stereotypes,' Kathryn Gordon grumbled. 'According to them the force is riddled with bigotry, run by sexist white male racists.' Geraldine was surprised to see the DCI's hands were trembling; she hadn't expected her to be nervous too. This was Geraldine's first televised appeal. She greeted Mr and Mrs Ross sombrely and led them to the briefing room. The table was in place, microphones ready, and the backdrop fixed. All Geraldine had to do was remember her carefully rehearsed lines.

  Gazing out into the faces and camera lenses, she felt a shiver of trepidation and was glad she was sitting down. The appeal wouldn't be transmitted until that evening but it would be broadcast unedited. She hoped she wouldn't make a fool of herself on camera and did her best to look confident. She pictured the headlines if she were honest about their progress: POLICE CLUELESS AS MORE WOMEN DIE! All she could tell them with any certainty was that the man they called the Woolsmarsh Strangler had claimed a third victim.

  Cameras flashed and Geraldine tried not to blink in the bright lights as Kathryn Gordon read out her statement slowly, pausing frequently to look around at the assembled reporters. Geraldine wondered if she was deliberately trying to spin it out, to leave less time for questions.

  'We regret to confirm that the body of a teenage girl was found in the lake in Lyceum Park early yesterday morning. She has been identified as Jacqueline Ross, a local school girl.' At her side, Mrs Ross gave one loud sob. A subdued groan rippled round the room. The DCI paused and a few reporters shouted out questions. Cameras flashed. Voices heckled more loudly. 'At least we're trying to find the bastard,' Geraldine thought angrily. 'The investigation into these tragic deaths …' Kathryn Gordon resumed, raising her voice but outwardly unperturbed, and the reporters fell silent, listening to the end of her prepared statement. Geraldine was shocked by the questions fired whenever the DCI paused.

  'What are the police doing?' a voice called out. This was not a personal attack against the police, Geraldine reminded herself.

  'We are following several leads and more information is reaching us daily. The co-operation of the public, and members of the press, is vital to our enquiry.' There was a muted mumbling that rose to a roar as Kathryn Gordon finished. The room fell respectfully silent when she introduced Mr Ross. He gave an emotional appeal for members of the public to come forward with any information. When he finished, the reporters began calling out again, demanding more answers.

  'That's three murders in less than two weeks. What are the police doing about it?'

  'Do the police support a curfew?'

  Geraldine wished she hadn't been given the job of fielding questions. She wondered if the press officer always looked so grim on these occasions. She suspected it might have been different with a man in the hot seat, although the most aggressive questions came from the female journalists. She pulled her shoulders back and looked out at the faces with a display of confidence.

  'Why is the park still open?' someone called out and a host of questions followed, all clamouring for attention.

  'Is this the strangler's doing?'

  'Why hasn't there been an arrest yet?'

  'It's almost two weeks since Angela Waters' murder. Are the police any closer to finding her killer?'

  'Is there a suspect?'

  'Was the drowned girl connected with the recent stranglings?'

  'Can the police confirm that this is the work of a serial killer?' someone yelled and there was a mutter in the crowd. The reporter who had called out the question continued: 'There's been no official confirmation yet from the police on that point.' Geraldine did her best to remain calm. The reporters were only doing their job, sniffing around for a dramatic soundbite.

SERIAL KILLER CONFIRMED

The headline would be followed by an 'in-depth' analysis, beginning with a rhetorical question:

  What are the police doing to keep our streets safe?

  And all the police could offer were timeworn formulae about pursuing enquiries and following leads. For an instant Geraldine was worried they were going to start heckling again. Then the briefing was over and she led Mr and Mrs Ross away. It was time to face her next audience.

47

Monday

Monday morning started badly. Rusty wasn't in school. The other girls hadn't seen her since the party.

  'I was wondering if she said anything about me,' Shema said as they gathered in their form room before class began. She didn't understand why Alice and another girl looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  'She says plenty about you,' Alice called over her shoulder as she walked away to join a group of girls gossiping about who they'd pulled on Friday. Shema asked around. Someone said Rusty was bunking because of the Maths test but, as it turned out, there wasn't a test that Monday. Sir told them to line up and go to the hall.

  'Why?' someone called out but Sir wouldn't tell them.

  The whole school assembled in the hall, laughing and chattering. The head and both deputies were on the platform with two visitors, a woman and a man. They all looked solemn. Shema heard Alice's braying laughter and hoped the other girls weren't bitching about her. She remembered how Ella had sniggered at her dress on Friday. Rusty had told her not to worry about it. She was in the gang with Alice and Ella, but they made her feel uncomfortable. It was no fun without Rusty. Mrs Galvin stepped forward. The word was spreading that Mrs Parker, head of year ten, had been crying.

  Everyone fell silent as the head teacher began to speak. 'The police have brought us news of a terrible tragedy. There is no easy way to tell you this. One of our year ten pupils sadly died at the weekend.' She paused before saying the name, 'Jacqueline Ross. The death of this popular girl, who was a valued member of our school community, touches us all. Jacqueline was full of life and high spirits and I know we will all miss her. There will be a full school service in here straight after lunch and Father Bembridge will lead us in our prayers for Jacqueline. A committee will be set up to decide what more we can do in her memory.' She paused. 'The police are investigating the cause of Jacqueline's death and are here as part of a murder enquiry. Now the police would like to say a few words.'

  There was silence for a moment, then Shema moaned, the sound lost in an outcry that echoed round the room. A girl fainted, and was carried out stumbling between two teachers. Mrs Galvin introduced the two visitors and when the woman spoke, everyone listened. Someone sobbed quietly at the back of the hall.

  'We're very sorry for your sad loss. We can understand how shocked you must all be feeling, but we need you to help us catch whoever killed Jacqueline. Anything you can tell us about her would help us. We're particularly keen to hear about Jacqueline's movements on Friday evening. We know she went to a party. If anyone saw her after school on Friday please come and speak to either myself or Detective Sergeant Peterson. We'll be …' she whispered to Mrs Galvin, 'in the Etherington Room all morning.' The woman carried on speaking softly into the microphone. She looked strict, but she had a kind voice. 'We also need to know about any friends Jacqueline had out of school. We need your help to build a picture of Jacqueline's last hours, where she went and whom she might have seen. So if you can tell us anything about Jacqueline, however unimportant it seems, please come and talk to us in the Etherington Room. Anything you tell us will be treated in confidence.' Dismissed, they returned to class and sat in stunned silence. Even Sir didn't know what to say. Then a prefect came in with a request for Shema to go to the Etherington Room.

  Shema knew she had to be careful. She couldn't imagine the consequences if her father found out she'd lied to him and gone to a party after school on Friday, and that she'd been on the streets alone after dark. She was probably the last person to see Rusty alive, apart from the killer. She remembered leaving Rusty alone at the bus stop, drunk, but there was no point in admitting that now. It would only land her in trouble and it wouldn't bring Rusty back.

  The two police officers smiled sadly at her as she sat down. The woman explained that they needed to establish where Jacqueline had gone after she left the party, so they could work out her route. Shema explained that she'd left the party at about nine. No, she hadn't seen Jacqueline at the party. No, she didn't know who Jacqueline's boyfriend was. She didn't know she had one. She was quite sure she hadn't seen Jacqueline after she left the party. She didn't know anything about a witness who'd seen two girls at a bus stop at around half past nine. No, she knew nothing about a girl leaving the party wearing a school blazer, accompanied by an Asian girl. Lots of girls wore their blazers out of school.