Nobody True (43 page)

“I reckon that’s it. We know now Moker was the serial killer. Hadn’t managed to get Mrs True and her kid, so went for other bait.”

Simmons shook his head as he pulled his raincoat up against the rain. “I dunno. Doesn’t make sense to me. How could he know where the agency was?”

“We found those phone books in his flat. He’d got the address beforehand, probably days ago when he first read about Guinane in the papers. Don’t forget, the agency’s name as well as Guinane’s was underlined in thick pencil in those articles about him being a suspect. Same as the location of True’s house.”

The two detectives had obviously been able to go through the cuttings more thoroughly than I had, even if it had only been a quick search.

Simmons clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Nah, doesn’t work for me. It’s too pat. I want a proper look into this Sydney Presswell’s background, your brother-in-law or not.”

“Ex-brother-in-law,” Coates insisted.

“In every sense now. Look, there’s something going on that doesn’t sit well with what we know. I want more background on Guinane, Presswell and True. Especially Presswell though, because he’s the one who’s been feeding you information about Guinane. I mean, really putting Guinane in the shit.”

“Okay, but—”

Both men looked towards a new car, a dark Jaguar saloon that has just drawn up behind the other police vehicles.

“Oh-oh,” said Coates resignedly. “The governor’s here.”

“Yep, and he’s got Commander Newman with him,” said Simmons. “Word’s obviously got upstairs about our breakthrough.”

Should be interesting, I thought, as I loitered close by, a wall behind my back so that I was out of the way of the busy policemen (not that it mattered, of course, they’d never know they’d bumped into me apart from a brief moment of disorientation). How the hell was anyone going to make sense of what had been going on?

The two senior policemen came towards the apparent crime scene, walking briskly and acknowledging the salutes of officers who were making themselves look even more busy. The taller one was Chief Superintendent Sadler. The shorter man (although only comparatively shorter because Sadler was so tall) wore an important-looking crisp, dark uniform and sported a neatly clipped beard. This one acknowledged his men with a sharp flick of the brown leather gloves he carried towards the rain-speckled visor of his cap.

When they reached the two detectives, Sadler introduced them to the uniformed policeman. “DS Simmons and DC Coates.”

The senior officer gave a curt nod of his head. He addressed Simmons.

“Give me a quick rundown on the main investigation and how it ties in with this.” His gloves indicated the two figures at their feet. “I gather they are connected in some way?”

“We heard about the woman who collapsed and died earlier tonight at Paddington Green after naming her attacker,” Sadler said to his two detectives. “The wonder is how she ever made it to the station in the first place with her injuries.”

“That’s right, Sir,” agreed Simmons. “She arrived there with a knitting needle straight through her heart.”

“Carry on from that point,” Commander Newman said impatiently.

“Because of the murder weapon involved, Paddington Green got on to the Yard’s major incident room, the one dealing with the recent spate of serial killings. As luck would have it, DC Coates and I were there on overtime and we scooted over to the nick as soon as our receiver passed on the information.”

“She was already dead when you got there?” queried Chief Superintendent Sadler as he scrutinized the bodies on the ground, a sour expression on his lean face.

“That’s correct, Sir. Incidentally, she had many other marks on her body, indicating her killer had roughed her up beforehand. She must have put up quite a struggle and there was no mutilation. We figure she’d managed to escape before that could happen.”

“And you say she named this person Moker as her attacker.” It wasn’t a question from the police commander but an affirmation.

Sadler spoke. “That’s right. She wasn’t all that coherent apparently—not surprising after everything she’d been through—but fortunately the name itself was perfectly clear.”

Simmons picked up again. “Locating Moker’s address was easy enough. No previous form by the way. Our computer found it on the electoral roll and Swansea supplied the make and number of Moker’s vehicle. We assumed there’d be a car involved because our killer would have had to have some kind of transport to transfer previous victims from one place to another for the mutilation. It was the break we were waiting for—a fresh killing. Could’ve been another copycat, of course, but this time we thought we were really on to something. In all, there were three ‘Mokers’ in the book but two lived out in the suburbs and we were keen on the one from inner London where all the murders were committed. We sent men out to the other addresses just in case, but our main attention was on the Shepherd’s Bush address. We knew our instincts were right the minute we entered Moker’s empty flat.”

“You had a search warrant, I take it?” Commander Newman asked sharply.

“Requested over the phone, delivered while we were there, Sir.”

I think neither of the two officers wanted to ask if that was before or after they’d entered the flat.

“We didn’t make any mess getting in though, Sir,” Coates quickly put in, as if reading their minds. “The window was only latch-locked and a credit card quickly took care of that when we got no response to knocking on the door. A constable climbed in and opened up for us. We can always say the door was open in the first place if it’s a problem.”

The commander stared at him for a second or two and, as an observer who didn’t like the grubby little detective, I enjoyed Coates’s discomfort.

“Let’s hear the rest, Simmons,” Newman said, redirecting his gaze.

“Yes, Sir. Well, although it was unfortunate that we didn’t catch Moker at home there was enough evidence in that place to know we’d found our serial killer, and forensics are going through the flat with a fine-tooth comb as we speak.”

Commander Newman gave an encouraging nod of his head and Simmons went on.

“We found newspaper clippings of every murder and mutilation so far, including James True’s. We also found a whole bunch of knitting needles stashed away in a cupboard, some of them already sharpened and all the same brand as the murder weapon.”

“Well done,” Newman acknowledged, slapping the leather gloves into the palm of his hand. “Now, how does it tie in with all this?” This time he nodded down at the dead bodies on the ground.

“Yes, I’m not too clear about what you told me over the phone,” put in Simmons’s immediate boss, Sadler. “You said Moker turned up at this James True’s house.”

It was odd being referred to in this way when I was standing only a couple of feet away (I’d moved away from the wall to get closer to the group).

With Coates chipping in every so often to let his superiors know he was in the picture, Simmons quickly explained how they had found news clippings showing pictures of Andrea and Primrose, and then had noticed the missing page in the telephone book from the T section. They’d immediately—and quite smartly, I thought—put two and two together, so they sped to my home in force and found a distraught Andrea and Prim. With what they’d learned from Andrea they had put out a fresh APB for all units to step up their search for Moker’s Hillman which, in the event, was spotted by an officer on fixed point outside a VIP diplomat’s house, who called in the information. The Hillman was only two streets away from the agency and that was when Simmons and Coates suspected (again, quite astutely, I thought) Moker had gone after Oliver Guinane, the man who had tried to appropriate his, Moker’s, crimes.

It was Sadler who interrupted the flow. “Is this man Guinane inside the agency now?” The tall man glanced up at the lights on the fifth floor and, reflexively, the commander did the same.

“Not sure, Sir. I sent some men up there a little while ago to look, but they haven’t reported back to me yet. I was about to go up there myself, just before you arrived. Thought I’d better put you and the commander in the picture first.”

“Right. Good. Let’s all—”

The policeman Simmons had ordered to search looker’s car appeared at the detective’s side carefully carrying an object in one hand, a large handkerchief preventing contact between it and his palm and curled fingers. I moved even closer for a better look, peering over Coates’s left shoulder.

It was Sadler who spoke to the PC, who seemed reluctant to interrupt his superiors.

“Uh, small chopper, Sir. I suppose you’d call it a hatchet.”

“You found it in the Hillman?” Simmons leaned forward with great interest.

“Yes, Sir. Under the driver’s seat.”

Moker’s mutilation tool. I’d forgotten all about it. Oh thank God he didn’t bring it with him into the house…

“I told him to search Moker’s car when we got here,” Simmons said to both the commander and the chief superintendent.

The loud wail of an ambulance; we hadn’t noticed its approach. The sound cut out as its driver waited for a policeman to hold back the blue and white tape that had already been strung across the street at both ends.

Our attention returned to the nasty little weapon in the constable’s hand.

“Didn’t have to break into the vehicle, Sir,” the young policeman said to no particular sir, displaying the hatchet proudly. “It was unlocked and it didn’t take long to find this. Lots of blood on it, even the handle. Newish and old stains. Looks as if it’s never been cleaned.”

Simmons grinned broadly and, although now I couldn’t see his face from behind, I’m sure Coates was grinning too. Sadler allowed himself only a small smile.

“Well done, constable,” the commander said to the young policeman (What was he? Twelve years old? His head was too small for his helmet). “Extremely well done.” (Spoken like a leader of men.) “Bag it and give it to forensics when they turn up. What’s your name?”

“PC Kempton, Sir.”

“Once you’ve passed it over to the bods, carry on with the search of the vehicle, see what else you can find. And get someone to help you, I want two men on the job.”

“Already taken care of, Sir,” Simmons put in quickly, but not defensively. “The other man’s continuing the search as we speak.”

Commander Newman gave a satisfied nod of his head.

“Sir!” the young policeman said smartly and took his leave. He marched off towards a patrol car, no doubt to collect a plastic bag big enough to hold his prize.

Simmons, and probably Coates too, were still grinning.

“Well I think the hatchet, together with those knitting needles you found in Moker’s flat, ties it all up rather neatly,” commented Sadler as if in praise of his two detectives.

“Except for this other man lying here,” said Commander Newman to spoil the fun. “What did you say his name was?”

“Presswell,” Coates quickly told him. “Sydney Presswell. We think he might have got in a tussle with Moker. Syd— Presswell was probably trying to save Guinane from Moker and they crashed through the window and over the balcony.”

“We’ll know more if Guinane is up there,” Simmons said helpfully. “He might be hurt, maybe unconscious.”

“Then we’d better find out,” said Newman, slapping the gloves into the palm of his hand again like a punctuation mark to the detectives’ report.

I’d almost lost interest by now. The facts were clear as far as I was concerned and I didn’t need to know any more. They’d find Ollie semi-conscious in our old office and no doubt he’d fill in the details for the police when he was able to. He would tell them about Sydney’s foolhardy confession—Sydney thought he was talking to a man who would be dead in a matter of moments—and they’d check out our devious bloody bean counter—yeah, I really did think of him like that now, although I hadn’t before—and discover all the little discrepancies in the accounts which foxy old Sydney wouldn’t be around to explain away, and they’d delve into his background thoroughly, find out about his debts, his gambling, his alimony payments to two high-maintenance ex-wives, a third one coming up. The drugs. They might—no, they would search his home after Oliver had spoken to them—and find his stash. Or maybe one of his exes would rat on him for revenge—it’s impossible for a wife not to know her husband is doing drugs. Of course, all that wouldn’t necessarily make him a killer, but he’d lose all credibility as a fine upstanding man. They’d dig even deeper and would come up with something, I was sure about that.

Ollie? He wasn’t guilty of the crime of murder, but he was guilty of other things where I was concerned. I could never forgive him but, hey, suddenly I didn’t care as much. I seemed to be moving away from emotional things like anger tonight. Oddly, I couldn’t even hate Sydney for cheating and murdering me; I just thought he was a very sick man. God, I even felt pity for Moker.

Imagine remembering your mother’s rejection at your own birth! Followed by rejection for the rest of your life! Born to be reviled or spurned by the ignorant few—few, but still too many!—driven crazy by your own disfigurement (It seemed that if anger was slipping off the board, then compassion appeared to be growing stronger.) I felt sorry for the poor, poor guy who had tried to kill Andrea and Primrose, sorry for someone who’d already murdered four other people, used them, then chopped three of the bodies to pieces, and it beat me, I couldn’t understand why. Probably because I’d had glimpses of his life literally from the inside, experienced his sorrow and pain. But then, I’d also felt his excitement and sick joy for those terrible things he’d done. I’d felt the lingering shadows of his black soul—the whole of which had repelled those good souls who had sunk into his foulness in a vain attempt to influence the man. There was nothing worthy there, only wretched darkness and cruel malevolence. Could evil ever be absolute? Nothing there to glimmer in the umbra? I’d never thought so before, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Moker’s soul would have been evil whatever the state of his body.