Justice for the Damned (12 page)

Reece pointed at the black dot. ‘What’s that?’

Vernon traced the outline of the triangle with a chubby finger. ‘As you can see, the map of disappearances forms a triangle. I believed the killer might live within this triangle.’ He poked his finger at the black dot. ‘That’s Mexborough, where Freddie Harding lived back in 2001.’

‘So who’s Freddie Harding?’

Vernon returned to the boxes and dug out a cardboard folder. He withdrew a mugshot-style photo of a man’s face and handed it to Reece. ‘That’s Freddie.’ The man was somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He had thinning brown hair, sideburns, small brown eyes and a small mouth with a receding jaw. A thick scar drew a diagonal furrow across his face from left to right. There was something weasel-like about his long, thin face and shifty little eyes. ‘I took that photo in 2001 after he was arrested.’

‘What was he arrested for?’

‘In March of that year, he beat and raped a prostitute on wasteland off Pitsmoor Road. During the attack, he boasted that he’d done the same thing to other girls. Luckily for her, a passer-by heard her screams and ran to help her. Freddie got away, but turned himself in four days later. At the trial he admitted to fantasising about kidnapping and raping prostitutes, but claimed the assault had been the one and only time he’d crossed the line into real life. He was sentenced to nine years, but received a three-year discount for an early guilty plea. He had another two years knocked off for good behaviour and was paroled in 2005.’

No surprise showed in Reece’s eyes, only a kind of knowing fatalism. ‘What makes you think Freddie wasn’t telling the truth about the assault?’

‘One of the prostitutes on my list was last seen getting into a white van. At the time of Freddie’s arrest he drove a white van.’

‘Lots of people drive white vans.’

‘Still, it’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?’

Reece nodded. ‘But you need a lot more than coincidence to convict someone. You need witnesses and forensic evidence. And I’m assuming none of those things were forthcoming.’

Vernon gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Let me tell you a bit more about Freddie Harding. And when I’m done, maybe you’ll realise just how dangerous he is. Shortly after Freddie was born, his father abandoned his wife and son. Freddie’s mother turned to drugs and prostitution. And Freddie ended up in and out of children’s homes throughout his childhood. I’ve seen his records from his time in care. He’s described as a quiet child, prone to violent outbursts and acts of petty revenge. He was also a compulsive liar. The only thing he was consistent about was his feelings for his mother, Brenda. He hated her with a passion that grew stronger each time he was taken into care.’

Reece’s eyebrows drew together as his thoughts turned to Staci and her daughter Amelia. Did Amelia harbour similar feelings? And if not, how long would it be before her love curdled into hate? Vernon’s voice dragged him back into the moment.

‘At sixteen, Freddie got a council flat and a job as a brickie. A couple of years later he married Emma Shaw, a girl he’d gone to school with. The marriage only lasted a couple of years before Emma filed for divorce. I tracked her down and asked her why she’d left him. She told me he was a pervert who got his kicks out of slapping her around in the bedroom. Here’s where it gets really interesting. While in prison, Freddie went to a psychiatrist for help. He told the psychiatrist that when his wife left him it brought back all the feelings of betrayal and abandonment he associated with his childhood. That’s when he says he started to have fantasies about killing his mother. The only problem was she’d died of AIDs several years earlier. So he transferred his fantasies on to all women in her line of business.’

Vernon withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Reece. On the page was a photocopy of some handwritten notes. Fragments of sentences had been highlighted with fluorescent marker. Fragments such as ‘diagnosis of antisocial sociopathic personality disorder’, ‘poses a significant danger to women’, ‘struggles to control impulses’ and ‘displays symptoms of sexual psychopathy’. ‘That’s a sample of the psychiatrist’s notes,’ said Vernon. ‘Don’t ask me how I got hold of them. There are pages and pages more. They describe how Freddie can only get real pleasure from hurting and humiliating women. And how his ultimate fantasy is to kill prostitutes and film himself having sex with their corpses.’

Reece held up a hand to signal that he’d heard enough. ‘I get the picture. This guy’s one sick puppy, and he’s certainly not lacking for motive. The question is, has he got it in him to follow through on his fantasies?’

‘He beat an eighteen-year-old girl half to death,’ said Vernon, with an incredulous twitch of his unhealthily purple lips.

‘Yes, but would he have killed her if he hadn’t been scared off?’

‘I guess we’ll never know for sure. I’ll tell you something I do know. In the first three years of Freddie Harding’s imprisonment, reported disappearances of prostitutes in this area dropped significantly.’

‘How significantly?’

‘Enough for your people to take a long hard look at Freddie and see if they could connect him to the girls on my list.’

‘Obviously they couldn’t.’

‘Not true. Freddie was a well-known kerb-crawler. He’d been arrested numerous times over the years. He was also a regular of several workmates of the missing girls. But none of them reported that he’d ever been violent against them. What’s more, he was never seen to pick up any of the missing girls.’

‘Except possibly the one who was seen getting into the white van.’

‘Yes, but as you pointed out white vans aren’t exactly uncommon.’

Reece’s eyebrows knitted in thought. ‘So what was Freddie’s game? If his MO is violence against prostitutes, why did so many of them come away from him unhurt? Was he simply working himself up to the attack?’

‘I think there’s more to it than that. Here, take a look at these.’ Vernon dug out two more photos and passed them to Reece. One was a grainy mugshot of a peroxide blonde woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She had a thin, hard-bitten face and glazed, drugged-looking brown eyes. The other was of teenage girl with dyed blond hair showing black at the roots, large brown eyes and hollow cheeks. Vernon pointed first at the older woman, then at the girl. ‘That’s Brenda Harding and that’s Ellen Peterson, the girl Freddie raped. They could be mother and daughter, don’t you think?’

‘Almost.’

‘I think when Freddie saw Ellen he lost control and just had to have his way with her right there and then.’

‘So the Pitsmoor attack was opportunistic.’

Vernon nodded. ‘And that was Freddie’s downfall. When Ellen survived, he realised the game was up. So he spent a few days erasing any physical evidence connecting him to the missing girls, before handing himself in and pleading guilty in return for a reduced sentence.’

Reece’s gaze returned to the photo of Freddie Harding. ‘Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting this guy used to drive around red-light districts posing as a customer so he could scout out his victims.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why pick up other prostitutes and risk coming onto the police radar?’

‘Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain view.’

Reece looked at Vernon doubtfully. ‘Someone would have to be either very stupid or very clever to try that.’

‘Oh, take it from me, Freddie’s very clever. Not that you’d know it when you first meet him. In fact, he can come across as a little slow. But underneath there’s a kind of cunning intelligence.’ Vernon gestured towards his boxes. ‘Like my mice. You know what the little buggers are up to, but it’s almost impossible to catch them at it.’

‘So what happened after Freddie’s release, did disappearances rise again?’

Vernon shrugged. ‘In 2004 I had a heart attack – well, several heart attacks actually. I ended up having a triple bypass. In 2006 I retired. That was me off the story.’ He gave Reece an intent look. ‘So, DI Geary—’

‘Call me Reece.’

‘So, Reece, have I convinced you that Freddie’s someone you should be looking at?’

‘He’s clearly a very dangerous individual. Still, it’s a stretch to see how he could have murdered twenty-nine prostitutes over a period of thirty plus years and avoided discovery.’

‘At least twenty-nine, and that’s just from 1980 to 2001,’ corrected Vernon.

‘So where’s he taking them? That’s a hell of a lot of bodies to get rid of.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Vernon took a scrap of paper out of his shirt’s breast pocket and handed it to Reece. There was an address in Wath upon Dearne written on it. ‘That’s where Freddie’s living now.’

‘I thought you said you’d been off the story since 2006.’

‘That doesn’t mean I haven’t kept tabs on where Freddie’s at. I’ve often thought about staking him out, seeing where he leads me, but… well, as you can see, I’m just not up to it.’ Vernon turned back to the boxes, fished out another folder and handed it to Reece. ‘If you still need more convincing, you should have a read through these.’

Reece read aloud what was written on the folder. ‘The Damned.’

‘That’s what I call them, because that’s what they are,’ Vernon said, matter-of-factly.

The folder contained a wad of typewritten pages, each with a photo of a young woman stapled to its upper right corner.

‘You can have that and Freddie’s file. I’ve got plenty more copies,’ continued Vernon. ‘Well, I think I’ve told you just about everything. So unless I can change your mind about having a drink…’

Taking the hint, Reece tucked the folders under his arm and stood to leave. ‘Thanks for your help, Vernon.’ He paused by the front door to hand the ex-journalist a card with his name and telephone number. ‘If you think of anything else, give me a call.’

‘Will do. Oh, by the way, you never told me the name of the prostitute who came to you for help.’

‘I didn’t say it was a prostitute, and I’d rather not mention their name.’

A sly smile played on Vernon’s lips. ‘Sorry, I was just digging for information. I was a journalist for forty-odd years. Old habits die hard. You do right to keep your friend’s name to yourself.’ He pointed at the folders. ‘You’d do right to be careful about who you show those to as well. The powers that be buried those names a long time ago. They won’t thank you for resurrecting them, not unless you can come up with some hard evidence.’

And what are the chances of that
, wondered Reece,
if a full investigation failed to implicate Freddie Harding in the prostitutes’ disappearances?

‘You never know, you might get lucky,’ said Vernon as if reading Reece’s mind. ‘As far as I’m aware, Freddie’s managed to stay off the police radar since his release. If he thinks no one’s interested in him, he might have let his guard down.’

‘Or maybe he’s a reformed man.’

Vernon wheezed out a doubtful laugh. ‘Freddie Harding, a reformed man. Somehow I don’t think so. Like I said, old habits die hard.’

Reece turned to leave, but hesitated, his expression growing somewhat sheepish. ‘One more thing, would you mind not telling anyone about my coming here?’

Vernon laughed again. ‘Who would I tell?’

As Reece returned to his car, he drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He’d come away from the newspaper-swamped house with a lot more than he’d expected, perhaps more than he could handle. Going it alone, there was only one likely way he could come up with anything new on Freddie Harding – staking him out, tailing him everywhere he went. But that could take weeks, months, even years. Time he didn’t have, what with the demands of his dad’s illness, Doug Brody, and his job. He sighed. It would almost have been preferable if his inquiries had hit a dead end. That way he could have at least told Staci he’d tried. As it was, instead of focusing on working towards their new life, all his spare energy would be sucked into what would almost certainly turn out to be a futile undertaking. And what if he did turn something up? What then? How the hell would he explain his unofficial investigation to DCI Garret?

Reece cut his thoughts off sharply. His gaze dropped to the folder of ‘The Damned’. There were twenty-nine names in there. Thirty if you added Melinda to the list. If Vernon was right, they’d died terrible deaths at the hands of a depraved killer. Surely they deserved a few days of his time. Otherwise how could he dare call himself a copper or, for that matter, a man fit to take care of a woman and her child?

He brought up DCI Garrett’s number on his phone and hit dial. Garrett picked up and said, ‘DI Geary. How’s your dad doing?’

‘Actually, sir, that’s what I’m phoning about. He’s not doing too well. Sorry, I realise this is a bad time, but I need the rest of the week off.’

The DCI’s voice took on an unfamiliar sympathetic tone. ‘No need to apologise, Reece. Your dad has to come first. I understand that. You take as long as you need. And give your dad my best wishes.’

‘I will. Thank you, sir.’

Reece hung up. Once more, a sense of futility rose in him.
Take as long as you need
, the DCI had said. But how long did he need? Vernon had spent years trying to nail Freddie Harding. How, in a matter of days, was he supposed to succeed where the ex-journalist had failed? Vernon’s words came back to him.
You never know, you might get lucky.
Sometimes luck was enough. But a cop who depended on it didn’t deserve to be in the job. He shook himself free of his thoughts. It had been a while now since he’d felt like he deserved to be in the job. He ducked into his car and plotted Freddie’s address into the satnav.

When Jim returned from his echocardiogram, he found Margaret waiting in his room. She was dressed for work in a black trouser suit. Traces of tiredness showed through her makeup. He felt a mingling of happiness and sadness at the sight of her. He wanted her to be there. And more than anything, he wanted her to want him. But he knew that even if she did, he couldn’t allow himself to give in to that want. Margaret smiled. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet.’

Jim resisted the urge to smile back. He kept his voice carefully emotionless. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’