Last Gasp (17 page)

Carver was passing the MIR when he
heard Alec Duncan call, 'Boss. Hey, Boss!' He stopped and retraced a couple of
steps. Alec was at his desk, pointing at a screen.

'Christ, Alec. It’s Monday bloody morning. Can’t I get my
coat off?' But he was already heading across. The burly DS was clearly
animated.

'I’ve been on CCTV all weekend,' Alec said.

Carver nodded. Soon after the second killing, they had
realised that the only way to keep on top of the mountain of CCTV footage that
arrived in a steady stream was to pay the teams overtime to view it. They
worked a rota system, evenings and weekends. 'What you got?'

‘These blonde hairs everyone keeps talking about?’

‘Ye-es?’

'Take a look.'

Alec rose to let his boss take his chair. As Carver settled,
he ran the video clip.

The snowstorm of static cleared to show a night-time view of
a petrol station forecourt. A street corner showed top-right. The time-stamp in
the bottom corner showed, ‘02.47’

'This is from Valley Garage, opposite where Dale Street
meets Valley Road. The night Corinne Anderson was killed.'

Carver’s heart skipped a beat. Dale Street was where Corinne
had lived, and died.

For several seconds it was like looking at a still
photograph. Then, from round the railings that skirted the corner came a woman.
She was walking quickly. As she turned so she was side-on to the camera, Carver
saw the blond hair that flowed from under her woollen hat and over her
shoulders. She was wearing a dark coat that met the top of calf-length boots.
In her right hand she was carrying some sort of holdall. It looked bulky. She
was in view for only seconds before passing out of shot on the left.

Alec hit ‘pause’ and turned to Carver, eyes bright with
expectancy.

Carver stared at the screen.
'Play that again.'

The way Ewan Cleeves kept swallowing
and catching his breath, Carver could tell he wasn’t comfortable being
pressured like this. But he wasn’t going to let up. They were still waiting for
the psychologist’s assessment on the female killer theory. ‘Just putting some
final touches to it,’ had been his last update. They could wait no longer. It
was time he either put up, or shut up.

Carver pressed again. 'We’re not asking for a definite yes
or no, Ewan. All we need to know is, how likely is it?  Is it a possible?’

Across the table, The Duke, Jess and Shepherd focused on the
academic. He’d just watched the clip for the second time. Carver could almost
hear the cogs whirring.

'Ewan?'

The psychologist blinked, twice, then lifted his head. He
looked pained. He would much prefer to give his conclusions on paper, in his
own time.

'Of course it’s possible. The motivating factors we are
assuming could just as easily reside in a female’s psyche. And there’s nothing
about the murders themselves that rule out a female killer. The absence of
semen at the scenes tells us that. As for how likely? It’s impossible to say.
Most repeat killers are male. But there are enough examples of female repeaters
that we should not rule it out. Certainly, in a case like this and at this
stage, where there is no direct evidence pointing in either direction, we have
to accept that our killer could as likely be female as male.’

Carver leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind
his head.

The Duke turned his face to the ceiling.

Shepherd snapped the pencil he had been playing with in two.

Only Jess gave no visible reaction to the words that had
just blown so many of their long-held assumptions out of the water.

For several seconds no one spoke. Carver felt the weight of
the investigation pressing more heavily than ever.

'Okay,' The Duke said. 'Let’s talk about where this leaves
us.'

For the next half hour, they discussed possibilities. Carver
pointed out several. The woman on the tape may have nothing whatsoever to do
with Corinne Anderson. The blond hairs from the scenes could still be from a
common ‘contact’ who, likewise, has nothing to do with the murders. Or they
could, indeed, be looking for a female killer. In which case a good part of the
investigation would need revamping. It drew anguished looks.

'There’s another possibility,' Jess said.

'What’s that?' The Duke said.

'It could be a man dressed as a woman.'

They all stared at her.

Shepherd gave out a guffaw. 'Jesus Christ. Someone’ll
suggest it’s Father-Bloody-Christmas next.'

Carver continued to stare. Then he said. 'It looks like a
woman to me. But Jess could be right. We shouldn’t rule it out.' He nodded to
The Duke, who was taking notes. Shepherd turned to look out through the window.
At The Duke’s urging, they turned their thoughts to what needed to be done.

The list grew, rapidly. Most of it came from Carver. They
needed to check the rest of the CCTV recordings in case the blond woman showed
up elsewhere. The whole team needed to be told to review everything they’d done
to make sure they’d not missed any references to a woman. Enquires were to be
made with the National Crime Agency and the National Crime Faculty regarding
women offenders. Carver would liaise with his FBI contacts over what their
databases had on female killers.

The others contributed as well. Shepherd would redouble his
team’s efforts to trace Cosworth’s previous girlfriend. A blond, she seemed to
have dropped off the scene of late. Cleeves would suspend his lectures to
review his - previously ignored - profile literature on female-offending.

'I’ll run it by Megan,' Jess said.

Eventually the suggestions dried up. Carver was about to
head back to his office with Jess to write up Actions when The Duke called him
back. Concern etched his features.

'I’m going to have to speak to the ACC again about more
staff.' Carver nodded but said nothing. The Duke continued. 'Each time we think
we’re making progress, something comes up to put us right back. The people
upstairs are becoming jumpy.'

Carver wasn’t surprised, but gave his SIO an even look. 'I
know this will sound like bullshit, John, but… my sense is, we’re getting close
to something. I feel like I’ve been here before… But I’m missing something. I
just need time to put it together.

'Well I suggest you get on with it, rapido.'

Jess wrote ‘Alec D’ next to the item
on the flip chart that read, “Review remaining CCTV.”

'He’ll love you for that,' she said.

'Alec’s thorough,' Carver said. 'If there’s anything there,
he’ll find it.'

The list now ran to eighteen items. Leaving The Dukes
office, it had been ten. As they worked, other things kept popping up. Jess’s
feeling of despondency was growing.

'How are we going to get through this lot?'

'One at a time,' Carver said. ‘As always.'

As he went back to checking his notes, Jess shook her head,
gave a wry smile. The video clip with the blond woman seemed to have restored
his focus. More like his old self. It certainly seemed to have taken his mind
off whatever was gnawing at him.

His mobile rang. Deep in his notes, he reached for it. When
he saw the screen, Jess was surprised to see him come bolt upright. He spun his
chair round to face the window.

‘Angie?’

The conversation lasted not much more than a minute. As Jess
listened to his end, her interest grew.

'No… Okay, just surprised to…No, it’s fine… Go on… Who…? He
What
?’
There was a longish silence, then, ‘Of course… TONIGHT?' His breath came out in
a rush. 'I’m not sure… Yes. Yes I understand. Okay... ‘Bye.'

He ended the call but continued to stare out of the window.
High on his temple a blood vessel pulsed.

A minute passed. Jess waited.

‘Jamie?'

No response.

'Jamie?'

He turned. The slightly startled look made her think he’d
forgotten she was even there.

'Sorry Jess. Er… Where were we?'

But he was miles away, eyes all over the place. She gave a
half-laugh, trying to make light of his distracted state. 'I take it that was
something important?'

He tried batting it off. 'Hmm? Just someone I’ve not heard
from in a while.' He lapsed into silence again.

She waited. If he wanted to tell her, he would. About to ask
if he wanted to postpone what they were doing he beat her to it.

Sitting up suddenly, as if he’d made a decision, he said, 'There’s
something I need to do. We’ll have to finish this in the morning.'

'That’s okay. I’ve plenty to be getting on with.' Her first
thought was to leave it there, but she couldn’t resist. 'If you need to go
somewhere, would you like me to come with you?' His answer gave nothing away.

'Thanks, but I can manage.'

She didn’t press, but headed for the door. About to leave,
he called to her.

'Do me a favour?'

She turned. He was going through the motions of tidying his
desk. Picking things up, then putting then down.
Who the hell was that?
'Sure.'

'Ring Rosanna for me? Let her know I’ll be late? As in,
very
late.'

'No problem.'

Heading back to the office, Jess was
worried. One phone call and he was back to the way he’d been the past week or
more. It wasn’t just the call that intrigued her. She knew how close he and
Rosanna were. She’d been with him a couple of times when he’d rung her to say
he’d be late, or to break off some arrangement. He always promised to make it
up to her. He’d even spoken of how understanding Rosanna was, compared to his
ex. Yet this time, he’d ducked out. Even asked her to make his excuses. It
meant only one thing. He didn’t trust himself to tell a convincing lie.

Back at her desk, she rang the number he’d given her weeks
ago, ‘In case of emergencies.’

Rosanna sounded surprised when Jess passed the message.
'Jamie asked you to call?' But even before Jess could explain she continued.
'Is he alright?'

'He’s fine. It just that he’s involved in something and can’t
get to the phone.'
Why the hell am I lying
? The silence that followed
made Jess wonder if she’d seen through it. 'Rosanna? You still there?'

'Yes, yes I’m here.' She sounded tired. '
Is
he fine
Jess? Are
you
fine?'

Jess frowned. 'Yes, like I said, it’s just...’ She dipped a
toe. 'Why do you ask?'

'It’s just that, these murders. They are a
nasty
business, yes?'

‘Yes, they are.
Very
nasty.’

'And are you- Does it upset you, dealing with a case like
this?'

Jess wondered where the conversation was going. 'Sometimes.
But a lot of what we do is upsetting. You know that.'

'But do they give you the… the
pesadelos
? How do you
say it? The horses of the night?'

It took Jess a moment. 'You mean nightmares.' Another time
Jess would have laughed at her tortured English. But murder and nightmares are
no laughing matter. 'No. Some nights I don’t sleep much, but they don’t give me
nightmares.' Then she realised Rosanna’s meaning. 'Is Jamie having,
nightmares?'

'There are times… Sometimes he is… troubled.' Jess waited
for her to say more. When she didn’t she probed.

'Tell me Rosanna. I may be able to help.'

There was another long pause. Eventually she began to speak.
For several minutes Jess listened in silence. The more she heard, the more her
concern grew. When Rosanna was finished, Jess did her best to sound reassuring.

'I’m sure it’s just the pressure of the investigation,' she
lied. But she was at a loss what to do with her new-found knowledge, what else
to say. It wasn’t like they were close friends. 'Look I’ll keep an eye on him
at this end. If things don’t look any better in a few days, ring me.'

'Thank you Jess. I’m so glad there’s someone I can talk to.'

As Jess hung up the phone, she was more worried than ever.

Jess worked on until everyone else
had gone except the night-clerk through in the MIR. He wouldn’t budge unless
there was a big break. Alec was last to leave, stowing the discs he’d been
watching in the cardboard box with, ‘VIEWED’ scrawled on the side. As he passed
he reminded her not to stay too long. 'You look tired,' he said. She promised
not to.

After he’d gone, she checked the rest of the floor - she
didn’t want to make the same mistake as Shepherd - before making her way to
Carver’s office. She closed the door and switched on the desk light, pulling
the lamp right down to minimise spill.

It took her the best part of twenty minutes to find Megan
Crane’s personal folder. Its new hiding place was in one of his filing cabinets
– it was locked but she knew where he kept the keys – within a docket marked,
‘Kerry Overtime Returns’. She spent another couple of minutes trawling through
it before she found what she was looking for - the sheet of paper she’d seen
Shepherd pull out and scrutinise. She scanned down it, ignoring the details she
was familiar with. At first she couldn’t see it, and began to wonder if maybe
it was her memory playing tricks. But then, right at the bottom, written in
pencil, there it was. The name must have lodged in her subconscious and only
surfaced when she heard him answer the phone, ‘Angie.’ Beside it was a
reference; NCA/RI/0427/PS. She copied it onto a post-it note and put the folder
back. Then she turned to his computer and switched it on.

Ten minutes later, she swallowed hard and clicked on the
‘proceed’ flag. As she did so she tried to ignore the Security Warning – an
intimidating black exclamation mark in a yellow circle - and its dire warnings
about ‘unauthorised access’ and ‘punishable with imprisonment’. Nor did she dwell
on the possible consequences of hacking into the National Crime Agency
Registered Informant Database using Carver’s system-embedded authorities and
personal identifiers. It could mean her job. A prison sentence even.

But after listening to Rosanna, she was determined to get to
the root of whatever was troubling him. ‘Angie’ seemed a good place to start.

That Carver had shared with her his PC boot-up passwords
that first week they’d started working together was typical of the trust he
placed in those close to him. But she knew he’d only intended it as a contingency.
In case he wasn’t around and she needed to access a file-note or something
they’d worked on together. It certainly wouldn’t have included her accessing
any of the databases and Crime Information Systems that showed on his desktop
after she booted up.
VICAP?
Wasn’t that something to do with the FBI?

She clicked again. A text-box appeared. ‘Source Registration
Number’. She entered the ‘Angie’ reference, hoping she was remembering
correctly the demonstration of the NCA Databases – using dummy files of course
- she’d witnessed during her Primary Investigator Course. The message that
flashed back proclaimed, 'Confidential: Access to Source Handler Only:
Authorised NCA User 2192: Enter Password.' An empty text box with a flashing
cursor stared back at her.

She had feared as much. His computer’s built-in permissions
and memorised passwords had got her this far, but a final security feature,
personal to him, had been added. She would have to gamble. Knowing how most
people use the same password for multiple applications, she tried his desktop
log-in. The message came back, 'Password not recognised. Please re-enter.' She
tried ‘Rosanna’ - a long shot, but worth trying she thought. It didn’t work.
She began to worry about how many failed attempts she would be allowed before
alarm bells started ringing. It wouldn’t be many.

As she stared at the screen, she sought inspiration. Who
was, ‘Angie’, and why would her name and details be recorded in the Megan Crane
file? What connected her with the dominatrix, and the Worshipper Enquiry? He’d
first made a name for himself around Manchester. Was that where he knew her
from?

Nothing came.

She thought on what she knew of him. Carver wasn’t a techie.
He had little time for computers, and only used his mobile’s features as much
as he needed to. He wouldn’t be good with passwords. She could easily imagine
him paying little or no attention to the regular implorings from the IT people
about the, ‘absolute necessity,’ for proper password management. In which case…
She cast her eyes over and round his desk. No out-of-sight sticky notes.
Nothing taped to the side of the monitor or the computer. She cast wider,
turning in his chair as she gazed about his office. He wouldn’t want to have to
leave his chair each time…

She checked the cork notice board by the door. Nothing
there. Next, the bookcase behind his desk. Nothing obvious. She turned to his
white board, ran her eyes over its familiar details. At first nothing jumped
out at her, but then, about to move on she spotted something. A single word,
written in green in the bottom right corner. No dotted lines or arrows
connected it to anything else. In the dim light she had to lean forward to make
it out.
WentWorth29

To begin with, it meant nothing, then her heart did a little
skip as she remembered. Churchill Wentworth was the name of the Ancoats Rapist.
Carver’s first serial sex offender. And she wouldn’t mind betting he was twenty-nine
or thereabouts when he was convicted. She turned back to the screen. Typed it
into the box, just as it showed on the board, hit ‘enter’.

'Yesss.'

The screen it brought up was headed, ‘Personal Details’. And
there was a photograph. She started noting details in the notebook she’d made
sure to bring with her.

Her name back then was Angela Kendrick, since changed to
Anna Kirkham. She was in her thirties, born Manchester, now living in Leeds.
The photograph showed an attractive, mixed race woman with mid-length dark hair
and a slim face. But there was an edge to her, a certain hardness. ‘Prostitute’
Jess thought, conscious she was stereotyping terribly. At the bottom of the
screen was a ‘next’ flag. She clicked on it. A page headed ‘Informant History’
contained paragraphs of text, all timed and dated, all attributed to Carver.
She began to read.

She’d been right. Angie was, or had been, a prostitute. The
early entries related to the Ancoats Rapist enquiry and detailed the
information she provided to Carver about the drug-dealer/pimp, Wentworth, who
was eventually convicted of the crimes. The entries also showed details of the
Informant Payments that had been made to her.

The other entries, two years later, concerned the Edmund
Hart, ‘Escort’ killings.

Jess was familiar with the case. Anyone around at the time
would be. She’d still been in her probation when they started and people were
always referring to them, for one reason or another, on the many training
courses she attended. The investigation into the murders of seven high-class,
‘Escorts’ - for some reason, people shied away from calling them prostitutes -
beaten, sometimes smothered but mostly stabbed to death around the North West
was one of the biggest of its kind. Since then, much had been said and written
about the enquiry, and the man - Hart - who was convicted of all but one of the
killings. More was said after he was found hung in his prison cell, just when
it seemed the police might be getting close to the truth about the outstanding
case. Much was also written about the intuitive Detective Inspector who brought
Hart to book.

It was one of the first, ‘live’ enquiries to take place
under the full glare of the media spotlight. A TV production company was just
starting on a documentary about the Longsight CID when the fourth murder
occurred in the district. Overnight, the film-makers ditched their original -
hidden - agenda, which was to expose the racism reported to be rampant amongst
certain elements within the force’s CID, in favour of following the
investigation ‘fly-on-the-wall’ style.

The completed series gave due recognition to the man who led
the enquiry in all but name during its final six months, and the last three
murders. Before Carver’s arrival, fresh from his stint with the National Crime
Faculty’s Operation Chain-Link, things had stalled and seemed to be going
nowhere. Carver was credited with turning it around.

Now, as she read of Angie’s involvement, Jess saw some of
how he’d done it. He had someone working on the ‘inside’.

By then Angie had come up in the world, operating from a
smart apartment in the fashionable Salford Quays area. An entry described her
as, 'one of the area’s higher-class escorts’ There was reference to her
specialising in, ‘fetish’. Jamie had taken her on as a, ‘Special Advisor’,
guiding him and his team through the shadowy world of the paid escort. It
wasn’t clear if he’d approached her, or the other way round. The record showed
that for several months she’d worked almost on a salaried basis, receiving
regular payments of several hundred pounds - a thousand in one case. Jess
wondered what she’d done to earn such sums. The last few entries were even more
revealing.

Angie had been contacted, several times, by a man calling
himself Eddie, who seemed eager to meet her. A ‘session’ was arranged, but
something went wrong – the report didn’t say what - and Edmund Hart was arrested
in the act of attacking her. The record wasn’t clear on the point but the
wording made Jess suspect he’d raped her, maybe other things as well. Forensic
matched up rope-fibres and wounds on the victim’s bodies, with the assortment
of restraints, knives and hammers found in the bag Hart had with him. He
pleaded guilty to all but one of the killings, though everyone knew he was
connected, in some way, with it. There was speculation about a second killer,
but it was never proven.

Angela Kendrick was well-rewarded for her assistance, and
the risks she’d taken. The last entry referred to a one-off payment of five
thousand pounds, and her being given a new name and re-housed in Leeds. The
final entry was her new name, and an address.

Jess shook her head. It was clear now why Jamie seemed so at
home with some of the more bizarre aspects of the Worshipper Killings. He had
seen it all before, been close to it. How close, she wondered? The entries were
simply a record of a handler’s dealings with his source. But they mentioned
covert operations where she and Carver had worked closely together, much as
they were now doing with Megan Crane. And Angie only ever dealt with Jamie.

Jess sat back, pondering. She had learned much, but still
didn’t know what lay behind Angie’s call, or why he’d had to rush off. There
was any number of possibilities. Some she preferred not to think about.

Checking she had all the information she needed, she clicked
on ‘Close Record’, logged out of the various systems and closed down. Gathering
her notes, she switched off the desk-light and left the office, remembering to
leave the door open.