Dead Wrong Page 14

  “You got it too, lad? Don’t you dare go taking time off. I don’t care if you’re dead on your feet. With Rocco laid up, I want the rest of you focused on this.”

  Dodgy screwed up his face to hold back a sneeze, and nodded.

  Calladine went to find Brad Long.

  “I need your help. I want some bodies to collect the CCTV from the High Street in Hopecross. I want the cars clocking. I want special attention paid to those with two occupants — a man and a woman. This woman.” He handed across a photo of Lydia. “She’s blonde, a stunner, so she’s hard to miss. They may have used a car, or they might even have been on foot. Either way, will you get your people to check it out?”

  “This is the babe who came here looking for you.” Long smirked. “Done a runner has she? Got wind of what you’re really like, Inspector, and had it away on her toes?”

  “No, idiot. She’s been taken by the bastard who did this.” He held out the front page mock up. “So less of the backchat, please, and try to be of some help.”

  Calladine watched Long’s expression change as he scanned the sheet. He could only hope the silly bugger would see the urgency of this and be of some real help.

  “See what you mean. Up against it this time — must be stretching even your powers of deduction.” He sighed and slammed the mock newssheet under the photocopier lid and pressed the switch. “Consider it done, old mate.” He handed Calladine the original. “I’ll get them right on it. Anything we get will be on your desk, pronto.”

  “Just ring me. He’s a dangerous sod, and we’re running out of time.”

  Chapter 18

  “I never liked that one.” Freda Calladine watched as another elderly lady was wheeled past them. “Look at her. Out of it on some drug or other. Bloody dementia, gets us all in the end. She’s as hopeless as her daughter was; bloody hopeless the whole family. In the end the daughter paid the price, but she was no help to that grandson of hers.”

  “Who, Ma? Who are you talking about?”

  “Her. Annie something or other. Knew her years ago. She had a weary, pathetic sort of a daughter. She had to go away after the son died. Wish I could remember her name . . . Annie . . . Annie . . . No, it won’t come.”

  Calladine had no idea what she was on about. His head still hurt so he simply made sympathetic noises in response to his mother’s ramblings.

  “Morpeth, Brenda Morpeth — that was her married name. Can’t remember what her other name was, her maiden name.” She poked a withered finger at a woman who was being bundled into a car. “Her daughter, the Morpeth woman, killed herself in the end.”

  Calladine’s eyes shot open. He stopped pushing and knelt down in front of his mother. “Did you say Morpeth, Ma?”

  She nodded and pulled the woollen blanket further up her body. “Cold. Bloody freezing it is. Mind you, it always is in these places.”

  “Tell me about her, Ma. Does she live around here?”

  “No, she’s dead, I told you. She’s dead and the boy’s dead too — a long time ago. Annie never got over it, I expect. I wouldn’t have either, but at least she’s got the other one.”

  “Other one? What do you mean?”

  “The other boy. Are you thick or summat today, son? You need to sharpen your wits — wake up a bit and listen.”

  She wasn’t wrong on that one. So there’d been two Morpeth boys. Perhaps Ruth had been right to investigate that particular thread. He’d check him out once he got back to the station, and see what Ruth had come up with. He wanted to know what had become of him, and he could also do with knowing that elderly woman’s full name.

  “Did she find you?”

  “Who, Ma?”

  “That young woman — your daughter, I think she said she was.”

  Calladine smiled and patted her shoulder. “I don’t have a daughter, Ma, remember?”

  “Sorry, son, I forgot. But she was asking about you.”

  Calladine left his mother with the carer. She’d take her to the wake and then back to the home. He drove to the station, feeling like death. Perhaps he was coming down with this damn virus too. Everyone else was.

  * * *

  “Ruth. The Morpeth boy — what have you got?”

  “Not much. Only what we know from the original report. Nothing wrong with the investigation either. Everything was done correctly — just nothing to incriminate Edwards or Hurst.”

  “Imogen! Would you look through the records — you know, births and the like. I want to know what David Morpeth’s grandmother’s full name is. I know she’s still alive. She was at the funeral I attended today. I also want to know where she lives and who takes care of her.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll get straight on it.”

  It would mean Imogen searching through the records, and then the electoral roll to find the address.

  “I’ve got someone coming in later — about the lip-reading. A Mrs Hampshire, from the National Society for the Deaf.”

  “Good. Give me a shout when she gets here.”

  He had no idea where to even start looking for Lydia, and was finding it difficult to cope with. If she got hurt — or worse — he’d never be able to forgive himself. He felt responsible. He should have done something about the press coverage — given the killer what he wanted. He should also have made Jones appoint an officer to watch her. Instead, he’d done nothing, and now she’d disappeared.

  He looked through the case file and studied the incident board again. Names. Faces. What was it he was missing? The answer to that one was simple enough: motive. Why was this bastard doing this? What had got to him so much that he’d felt the need to butcher those youths in such a dreadful way?

  Imogen approached him. “Nothing. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but believe me I’ve been through everything. There is no record for a woman marrying a man with the surname Morpeth within the last hundred years.”

  Calladine groaned. Every damned path led to a dead end.

  “Are you absolutely sure? Could you have missed it?”

  “No, sir. The records are all computerised. It’s an easy enough process, and I’ve been on to all the register offices within a twenty mile radius. There is nothing — nothing at all. It is possible that she married abroad — or didn’t marry at all.”

  No use checking the electoral roll then. No use whatsoever.

  “I’ll go and have another word with my mum. See if her mind has cleared any.”

  Ruth looked up at them from a file of notes. “I started this Morpeth thing. Perhaps I should come with you?”

  “Not with that cold, you don’t. You’ll have them all at death’s door within the week. You stay here. Look at those old case notes again and see if there’s anything else we can use.”

  “You think this is significant, don’t you, sir?”

  “Truth is, I don’t know what I think anymore. We’ve got nothing, so it’s grab what we can time.”

  Fair enough. She’d do what she could.

  * * *

  It was teatime at the home when he arrived. His mum was back from the funeral and settled in her chair in the lounge.

  “Tom!” She greeted him with a big smile. “I’ve been out — Lizzie Mottram’s funeral, and then we had sherry at her son’s house. Nice it is too, up on the hill, lovely view.”

  “Yes, Ma, I know where you’ve been. I was there, remember?”

  Freda Calladine shook her head and sipped at her tea.

  “We saw that other woman — the one with the pathetic daughter. Do you remember that?” he asked. “Do you remember her name, Ma?” It was a slim chance but it did no harm asking.

  She gave him a quizzical look and offered him a biscuit. “Were you there, Tom? I don’t remember seeing you. You should have said something.”

  Calladine closed his eyes, in a silent prayer for help. This was farcical. He couldn’t go on like this.

  “And she’s been here again, your daughter.”

  “Not mine, Ma.” He gently p
atted her knee. “I’ll see you later.”

  More nothing. Surely this case had to break sometime. By the law of averages, one of the leads he followed up must eventually give him something.

  * * *

  “Mrs Hampshire’s arrived. We set up in here so we can use the big screen,” Imogen told him when he arrived back in the incident room.

  The lip-reader, Clare Hampshire, was what Calladine would describe as a comfortable woman; a bit like Monika. She was middle-aged, slightly overweight, with short easy-to-manage hair, which she spiked a little on the top. Her nod to fashion, he reckoned. She wore no makeup apart from some pale pink lipstick, which gave her a washed out look.

  They shook hands and sat down. Calladine explained what they were after: basically anything she could give them.

  “She’s a very animated young woman,” Clare Hampshire began. “She’s surprised to see him, but not shocked or frightened, I’d say.”

  “So she knows him?”

  “Possibly. Either that, or he was expected. She’s just said the word detective, followed by . . . my overprotective detective.”

  She obviously meant him. Lydia must have thought he’d sent the guy to look after her. She was so trusting. He wished she’d phoned him, made sure.

  The lip-reader interpreted Lydia’s speech:

  Where are we going? — okay then, surprise me. But perhaps you can’t say — safe house is it?

  This was awful. Having to sit and watch as Lydia was so completely taken in. This man was good. There was no denying that. He was obviously pretending to be a policeman. He was pulling it off with consummate ease, and utter confidence.

  “What was that?” Calladine leapt to his feet. “What was that sort of shudder as he leant forward?”

  “It could be anything, sir. The camera was jolted — by the wind or something.” Ruth sneezed into a tissue.

  “That’s it! The bastard sneezed. He bloody well sneezed, and she’s still got hold of her briefcase, see it’s in her hand!”

  Calladine was jubilant. This was possibly the long-awaited breakthrough. He ran and picked up the office phone to call the forensic scientist.

  “Julian! We’ve got him. He sneezed close to Lydia’s briefcase. There must be drops of saliva and God knows what all over it. It’s in the boot of her car. Our people are still there, so go get it.”

  Finally they’d had a stroke of luck — luck they so badly needed. Now they’d get his DNA. If their good fortune stuck then there might be a match on the database. He’d keep his fingers crossed, along with everything else.

  Chapter 19

  This wasn’t right. Something was definitely wrong. Her mind was in a muddle. Where had she been? Where should she be now? There’d been a man; Tom had sent him. He was going to take her somewhere, but he hadn’t done what he’d said he would. That was it. He was supposed to look after her, take her to the police station or somewhere safe. So what had changed? What had gone wrong?

  Lydia Holden felt cold and heavy. She couldn’t move her legs or her arms, and it was dark. The first wave of sheer panic rushed through her. What if? No. That was too dreadful to even contemplate.

  “Anyone there?” she called into the cold space. “Where are you? I know someone’s there. Please let me go.”

  He hadn’t gagged her. He didn’t want to obstruct her lovely face; he liked looking at her. He liked the sound of her soft, lilting voice.

  “You’re okay. No need to worry, Lydia. For now, that is.” He leaned in close to her, and chuckled.

  She could feel his breath on her cheek. Smell him. But she couldn’t see. Lydia felt the goosebumps form: fear. Who was he and what did he want? Then she remembered. He’d come to her apartment; met her in the car park. She knew him, but couldn’t think where from.

  “Sorry to interrupt your day, Miss Holden. You must understand how it is. It’s not my fault that you’re here, that I’ve had to abduct you like this. The fault is entirely yours — well yours and that meddling inspector you’re so fond of.”

  “I’m sorry. If I’ve done something to upset you, then I apologise.”

  She heard him laugh again, and the sound of boots striding across a solid floor.

  “You should try that again, this time with some real feeling behind it. You see, I wish you could convince me. I do so want to believe you, sweeting, I really do . . .” Sweeting was a term of endearment he usually reserved for his mother. He brushed his hand across her cheeks. “But you’re lying, I know you are. Your type always does. All you really want is a story. And now — in the predicament you’re in — you’re simply trying to save your precious skin, aren’t you?”

  Lydia sobbed. She’d pushed things too far. He must have watched her — her and Tom — so he’d know that the inspector would never allow her to print the stuff he’d sent. This maniac wanted his brutality broadcast loud and long, and she’d dug her heels in. That’s why she was here.

  “And what beautiful skin you’ve got, too. So smooth. So perfect. And what magnificent breasts.” His grip was hard, and it elicited a piercing scream from Lydia.

  She was lying flat on her back — naked — on some sort of table; that’s why she was so cold. He must have undressed her while she was unconscious. She struggled, trying to free one of her hands, but couldn’t. So she wasn’t only naked, but bound tight and spread-eagled. She became aware of this with a mix of horror and embarrassment.

  “Now, now, sweeting, don’t fuss so. You like men touching you, I know you do. You liked it when that meddling inspector touched you. It’ll be no different with me. Just a little more — adventurous — that’s all.”

  What did he mean by that? By now she was terrified. The goosebumps were at it again, and that sick feeling in her stomach. She knew well enough what he meant; he was a man wasn’t he?

  “Don’t hurt me,” she begged. “Please, I’ll do anything — print anything you want me to, but don’t hurt me.”

  Lydia felt his hot breath on her cheeks as he laughed in her face. She was at his mercy. All she had to fight him with were words, and they were useless because he was clever, he’d know that she didn’t mean any of them. He had the upper hand and he knew it. He’d think her a stupid bitch for falling for the lies he’d spun her.

  “We should have some fun, you and I,” he said softly. “I’d like that, wouldn’t you, Lydia?”

  She felt his hands travel the length of her body. They lingered on her breasts. Lydia tried to shrink down into the bench, his touch was sickening.

  “I like your breasts, they’re large but naturally so. I like your nipples too, hard rosy nipples that’ll be good to taste.”

  Lydia screamed as he lowered his head, took one between his teeth and pulled lightly. “Get off me, you filthy bastard,” she shrieked.

  “How the lady roars,” he laughed. “But soon, Lydia, I’ll give you real reasons to scream. You will scream long and hard but no one will hear.”

  “Please — don’t do this. Let me go, let me help you.”

  At that he laughed out loud. “No — why should I? I have you safe, in a secret place where no one will find you. Don’t you find that as big a turn on as I do, Lydia?”

  No she didn’t, but the madman was not for listening. Lydia racked her brain for something she could say that would appeal to his better nature — if he had one. She’d seen the pictures, watched the film, she knew what he’d done to his other victims.

  “It’ll be good. You’ll enjoy our time together. I know I shall. A female body is so much more interesting than a male one, don’t you think? It offers up such fascinating possibilities when it comes to causing pain.”

  “You don’t have to hurt me. We can be friends, we really can. I’ll try hard, harder than before. I can be the woman you want; I can write your story, and then everyone will understand. You can talk to me, I will be your mouthpiece.”

  Her voice was shaky, full of fear. She barely sounded convincing to herself, never mind to him. She screwed he
r eyes tightly shut, as if trying to turn him off, but it was no good. He was touching her again. The trembling started and became visible shaking as his hands continued their steady exploration of her body. “Stop this. Stop it now, and I’ll give you what you want.” But her voice had become a high-pitched wail that simply made him laugh all the more.

  Lydia knew this was hopeless. He wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d taken everything — her body, her sanity . . . and then he’d do to her what he’d done to the others. She sobbed into the darkness and swore at him, her fists clenched in anger but totally useless.

  “And what do you think I want, Lydia? Because I’m not entirely sure I know myself, anymore.”

  “You want your side of things printed in my paper. I can do that for you,” she promised frantically. “I can make people see, make them know who you are.” She was trying to sound as persuasive as she could.

  He laughed again, the sound echoing against the bare stone walls. “And what do you think people will see? How will you make them understand? I’ve killed people, Lydia. I’ve butchered them in the most hideous ways. Turn your head — go on, just a little. Hanging on the wall just a few feet away is what’s left of Mr Masheda. That’s his bowels lying festering on the floor. So you see, sweeting, people won’t like that; they won’t like that at all. They’ll want to lock me up and throw away the key.”

  Lydia squinted into the gloom. She could just make out the shape, the shape of a body, hanging like a rag doll from a hook. Seeing it, knowing what it was, instantly made her aware of the smell, and she retched.

  “I might still be able to sort it out.” Who was she kidding? “We could try. I’ll get some help, someone to come over and we can talk this through.”

  He didn’t reply

  His hands wandered lower down her body, and she screamed.

  “I’ll make you scream, alright. I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. You should have printed what I sent you. If you’d done what you were supposed to, you wouldn’t be here.”

  He ripped off his latex gloves and threw them to the floor. It was as though he wanted to feel her skin against his fingertips.