Grave Doubts (25 page)

‘And you think the murderer is Griffiths’ secret pen-pal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it more likely that the stalker is a friend of Griffiths who is simply harassing her? Why do you think that he knows the killer and that they chose to work together?’

‘The similarities of the victims, the unsolved crimes, two distinctive MO’s in proximate locations, the pristine state of Griffiths flat, so consistent with the lack of trace evidence. There’s plenty of circumstantial reasons.’

‘But no hard evidence.’

‘None, but I just know. It sounds crazy, and I’m used to being told I have conspiracy theories on the brain, but I’m often right.’

‘It’s odd but not daft. I hope this Nightingale of yours is worth your worry.’

‘Oh she is.’

Eddie read the
Daily Mail
in his van on Tuesday as the express hurtled back to Birmingham. The picture on the front cover made him spill his coffee. It was the man he had seen on this train a week ago, the man he had been so concerned about. He read the story twice, raising his eyebrows at the name of the officer in charge who was an old sparring partner. As soon as the train pulled in to its final stop, he was off to a phone at a run.

‘Derek Amos, please. It’s urgent.’

‘The Superintendent is unavailable, can I help you?’

‘No you bloody can’t! I want to speak to Derek. Tell him it’s Eddie Swaine and it’s very urgent, about this case he’s on.’

He had to wait and the supervisor was giving him black looks for staying on the phone for so long but he ignored him. Derek sounded irritable when he eventually came to the phone.

‘This had better be bloody good, Eddie.’

‘I saw him. The bloke you want. Two weeks ago on the train from London to Birmingham.’ He described his encounter and his concerns.

‘Are you sure this is our man?’

‘I wrote the details down and I’ve got them here. There’s no mistaking him.’

‘I’m going to have someone from the local force come over to take your statement right now. Don’t go away.’

Fenwick left for Harlden with Cooper and a copy of Tasmin’s file and arrived at the station by noon. In Quinlan’s office he spread the contents on his desk and waited in silence.

‘My God, this is grotesque. And they think it’s the same man?’

‘Can’t be sure, but he tried to take her finger and the face is identical to the Knightsbridge killer. Only the hair and eye colours are different but they’re both easily changed.’

‘How long since the killing in London?’

‘Two weeks.’ The statement hung in the air. ‘I’m worried for Nightingale.’

‘You’ve got to let that drop, Andrew. I accept that there’s a remote chance this killer is somehow linked to Griffiths but Nightingale is fine. There have been reassuring Emails so we know that she’s safe. Let it go – it’s an unnecessary complication based only on your conjecture.’

‘Her original Emails to Cooper might have been reassuring but the one she sent me acknowledges she’s still receiving hate mail.’

‘Which says what?’

‘I don’t know; I can’t open the attachment with it in. Every time I try to my system shuts down. IT support are trying to open it for me.’

‘And what else did she say, Andrew?’

Fenwick looked away, unwilling to repeat Nightingale’s words of reassurance.

‘Exactly,’ Quinlan said, vindicated, ‘she doesn’t feel threatened does she?’

‘She says she’s in a place no one can find but…’

‘She should know.’

‘But the physical similarity…’

‘Nightingale was chosen for the operation
because
of that. Now look, MacIntrye has asked for you to be seconded to his team. It’ll mean virtually living in London until the case is closed, and you can’t carry that crusade with you there. Are you up for it?’

Fenwick thought of the children, home for the holidays and took a deep breath.

‘Yes. I’ll go.’ If Quinlan shared MacIntyre’s scepticism it was the only chance he would have to pursue his theory, and screw the consequences.

The problem of how to persuade Quinlan and MacIntyre that Nightingale was in real danger stayed in his mind for the rest of the day, even when he was with Bess and Chris. When he told them he would have to go away there were tears and sulks but by the time he put them to bed, far later than normal, they were friends again. Mrs Knight was kind enough to say she would forego her days off if need be and he packed his overnight case with a growing sense of anticipation.

Before he could reach the offices of the Metropolitan Police the next day, MacIntyre rang and directed him to Doctor Batchelor’s house. He would meet him there.

‘I still think that B is unconnected to Griffiths but I need to exhaust every angle. If Griffiths is a link he’ll be suspicious with too many interviews but we can ask the Doctor whatever we like. Anyway, I want to form my own opinion.’

Batchelor was waiting for them and opened the door before they rang the bell. Fenwick was delighted to see that concern had replaced his sanctimonious expression.

They followed him down a narrow hall and into the womb-like room. Batchelor positioned himself safely behind his desk. MacIntyre took the lead.

‘It is possible that Griffiths may be linked to a man who is raping and murdering young girls. We need to identify this person before he attacks again and information from Griffiths may be helpful. As I said on the phone this morning, if you claim patient-doctor privilege I shall do whatever is necessary to compel you to assist. This case has the Home Secretary’s personal interest.’

‘There’s no need to threaten me, Superintendent. The Govenor has given her support to your request. For my prison work the patient signs a disclaimer in case the authorities require detailed reports.’ Nevertheless his hands shook as he found and lit a cigarette.

MacIntyre put a tape recorder on the desk and switched it on. He identified the people in the room, the time and date, then looked expectantly at the doctor.

‘How would you describe Griffiths? What sort of man is he?’

‘Reasonably intelligent. I ran some IQ tests. His scores averaged 105. Reserved, shy, not always articulate. It came as no surprise to me to learn that he had made his living as a software developer.’

‘Was he a successful one?’

‘Very. In one interview he told me that in his peak year he made £100,000. He also had some stock in one of the companies he had worked for. The idea of being a shareholder appealed to him although he was frustrated that he hadn’t sold his shares as others had done, when they were worth ten times what they are now.’

Fenwick raised a hand and MacIntryre nodded.

‘You said when others had sold. What others do you think he meant?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yet it was someone he knew well enough to have a conversation with about personal financial affairs?’

‘Yes. Well, let me see what else I can tell you about the man.’ He leant back in his oversized black leather chair and stroked his wispy beard. Some of his confidence was returning. ‘I’ve had many patients who have committed violent crimes. Griffiths is different. In fact, I find it hard to believe him guilty of such violence towards women.’

‘Did he mention any normal relationships with women?’ MacIntyre took up the questioning again.

‘He assured me that he’d had healthy sexual relationships in the past and no problems relating to women – not sure I believed him. He was abandoned as an infant and lived in a series of children’s homes until being fostered by a family as a teenager. He describes that as the turning point in this life.’

‘What else did he say about growing up?’

‘I have a tape of an interview with him. Would you like to hear it?’

Batchelor rummaged in a filing cabinet then inserted a numbered tape into his own machine and forwarded it to the right moment. Griffith’s voice filled the room.

‘The early years were difficult. None of the homes was well run and there were always fights. I stayed out of them but it was hard to. Some of the carers beat us.

‘I never expected to be fostered, but my life changed. The house was out in the country – I’d never seen a real sheep before then. I started to enjoy school. It was weird. I found I was good at some subjects: maths, computer studies. We didn’t have a computer in the house so I stayed behind to use the school one.’

‘What do your foster parents think of your imprisonment?’

‘They’re dead, a while back. I told you before I have no relatives.’

‘Were there other children at home?’

There was a pause, then Griffiths’ voice.

‘No. Just me. I told you. There was no one.’

MacIntyre reached across and stopped the tape.

‘Sounds like a lie, don’t you think, Doctor?’

‘Very probably. Prevarication, certainly. Do you think this other person was fostered with Griffiths? How fascinating!’

‘Did he ever mention any names of friends or family?’

‘Never. I’m sure. It was something I noticed about him. He would talk quite freely, if with no show of emotion, but it never once sounded personal. Sometimes he would go back over old ground but his descriptions and statements were always identical. He never once contradicted himself.’

‘Did he ever talk about what happened to his foster parents?’

Batchelor’s eyes sparkled.

‘Oh yes! That was a most fascinating interview. You must hear it. Let me change the tape.’

More fussing in the filing cabinet and with the machine, and then the doctor could be heard speaking.

‘Tell me more about your foster parents. Were you fond of them?’

‘Fond? Sort of. They were nice.’

‘How did they die?’

‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘I think it would be good for you to do so, Wayne. Even a simple comment will really help you.’

(Pause)

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What would you like to tell me?’

‘Don’t know. I’ve never talked about this.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seventeen. It was on my birthday…’

‘Go on.’

‘My mother had baked a cake. We finished tea at six thirty. It was dark outside. The house was
in the country, by a lake, not far from a wood. Very quiet. My mother decided to take the dog for a walk even though it was snowing. She put on her big tweed coat and took the torch with her.

‘When she hadn’t returned by quarter past seven Dad started to worry. At half past, he decided to go and look for her. He put his cap on and took a torch. When he opened the door to go out, the dog ran in. It had its lead on and was sort of yipping.

‘My father became very agitated. He pulled on his Wellingtons, black ones with the tops rolled over and picked up the lead. He tried to take the dog out with him but it wouldn’t budge. So he went alone. Mother’s footprints were clear in the snow and he followed them. I never saw either of them again.’

‘What happened?’

‘She fell through the ice on the lake and drowned. It was a very cold winter so I imagine they thought it would be solid but it wasn’t. Father went to find her and fell in too. That was it.’

The tape stopped. There was silence in the room. Batchelor was first to speak.

‘Poor little blighter. No love or family life for years, then a decent home, and that happens. Absolutely terrible.’

‘Maybe,’ said Fenwick. Something in the tone of his voice made them turn and stare at him, ‘except that Griffiths’ date of birth on file is the 1st August. Not a lot of ice and snow at that time of year.’

MacIntyre shared Fenwick’s car on the way back into London. The flyover was jammed solid so they listened to the borrowed tapes of Griffiths’ interviews as they crawled forward, trying to distinguish lies from truth. As they inched into west London Fenwick asked MacIntyre to play a section of one of the tapes again.

‘I started going out with girls when I was at senior school but I didn’t date seriously until work. Very often I didn’t particularly like the girl, they were so stupid some of them, but it was the accepted thing to do and the sex was good.’

‘Did you find it easy to get dates?’

‘Oh yes, particularly with the prettier ones. They were so used to the boys being all over them, which was something I never did, so I was a challenge to them.’

Fenwick glanced at MacIntyre. ‘What’s your immediate reaction to that?’

‘Arrogant prick.’

‘I agree, but what else?’

‘It sounds a little rehearsed, slightly artificial? What are you getting at?’

‘Remember the profiler’s report. They described Griffiths’ crimes as the work of someone who was not socially confident, poorly adjusted, unlikely to have normal relationships.’

‘Yes but they also said he probably lived with an elderly parent and that was clearly wrong.’

‘Bear with me. The report also said that killer B was far better adapted, and we know he’s smooth-tongued enough to be invited back to his victims’ homes. I think Griffiths is using his words, not his own.’

‘Possible.’

‘They might have met at work, perhaps even in the children’s home, and formed a bond.’

MacIntyre stared at Fenwick in silence. The scrutiny made him self-conscious. After a considerable pause during which they actually managed to hit thirty miles an hour, MacIntyre said.

‘You’re an interesting copper, aren’t you. I bet if anyone said to you that you were intuitive you’d argue against it as a matter of principle but I think you are, exactly that.’

‘Some people just call it lucky.’ Fenwick smiled, trying to turn the conversation into a joke.

‘Maybe, I’m a great believer in intuition myself. My father was a superintendent in the Highlands. He believed in his gut, said he got more convictions that way than any other.’

‘Well, you said yourself that Griffiths sounded artificial on that tape. How did you know that?’

‘Years of practice.’ MacIntyre laughed. ‘OK, so maybe we all have an ability to interpret beyond fact but I still think yours is more than that.’

Fenwick shrugged. The car accelerated across an amber light as the traffic of the metropolis closed around them.

MacIntyre handled the team briefing with authority, mentioning the possibility of a link with Griffiths with cautions that it was only one theory. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had presence that suggested leadership and toughness. While he was in discussion with the NCS, he said, he reassured them that the investigation was still all theirs.

‘DCI Andrew Fenwick here was responsible for identifying a potential link between Lucinda’s killer and other crimes and has played an important part in the investigation to date. I am placing him in charge of a small team that’s going to focus on past crimes with similar MOs. Brown and Knots, you are to be attached to the Chief Inspector.’

Fenwick’s habitual poker face meant that there was no show of surprise at his welcome responsibilities. The two officers who were going to work with him introduced themselves and he explained that he wanted one in London as an anchor and the other would travel with him to Telford the next morning where Griffiths had gone to school. Knots volunteered to go. Brown didn’t argue. He gave them Tasmin’s file to read while he went for a walk in the fume-laden London air.