The Cold Hand of Malice (2 page)

‘We’ve had the word out on the street for weeks, but we’ve had nothing back. I’ve had the profiler working on it, but she hasn’t come up with anything, so I’m stumped. The local papers have been on our backs, as you know – not that you can blame them; people out there are worried that they could be next. And of course New Street isn’t happy about all the bad publicity. They want results! Paget understands the problem, and I think Superintendent Alcott does, too, but they’re getting pressure from above as well.’

Audrey set her knitting aside, got up and walked over to stand behind her husband’s chair. Her strong fingers probed the knotted muscles around the base of his neck. ‘I know it’s serious,’ she said quietly, ‘but worrying yourself sick isn’t going to help anyone, and it won’t solve anything either. Would it do any good to have more cars patrolling the streets at night? If nothing else, it might make people feel safer if they could see a police car on their street from time to time, and they just might see something.’

Tregalles shook his head. ‘They’re stretched to the limit now,’ he told her. ‘They’re twelve men short – have been for six months or more, and New Street doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to replace them.’ He moved his head from side to side. ‘Just a bit lower on the left,’ he instructed. ‘Aaahh, yes! That feels good. Now you’ve got it.’

‘Are you quite sure it’s two boys or men doing all this?’ Audrey ventured tentatively. ‘I mean except for that woman in Dunbar Street, nobody’s actually
seen
them, have they? Did she say they were both boys?’

‘No. She said she thought they were both young by the way they went over the wall, but that was all. She couldn’t give us a description at all. Why? What are you getting at?’

‘It’s just that I couldn’t help wondering while you were telling me about this sort of pattern they have, especially having a meal and all, if it could be a boy and a girl? I mean, you know what it’s been like with the gangs lately; it isn’t only boys any more; some of the girls can be just as bad or even worse than the boys. It’s probably a silly idea, but I wondered if it started out by some boy trying to impress his girlfriend and it sort of escalated so they were trying to outdo each other.’

Tregalles eased his neck back and forward, enjoying the sensation as his muscles began to relax. ‘It
could
be something like that, I suppose,’ he said, sounding doubtful. ‘It’s worth considering. In fact, anything and everything is worth considering at this stage.’

‘What about the houses they choose? Any connection there?’

‘Not that we can find. They’re spread out all over town, and the victims are from all walks of life. They don’t know each other; they have completely different jobs; they don’t belong to the same church, clubs, associations or anything like that. A couple of them went to the same school many years ago, but they were something like ten years apart. We’ve run them backwards and forwards through every computer programme we have and come up with nothing.’

Audrey moved back to her seat and picked up her knitting. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said as she slipped a needle under a stitch and began another row, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help, but for the life of me I can’t think of anything else to suggest.’

‘Nor me,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to carry on doing what we’ve been doing, I expect. Someone has to know something about these two bastards, and we’ll just have to keep pounding the streets and knocking on doors until we find that someone. If only they would steal something of value and try to flog it . . .’ He shrugged the thought away.

‘What I would
really
like to know,’ he continued, ‘is where they get their information from. How do they know they’re not going to be disturbed? That’s the key. If we could find that out we’d have ’em!’

He rose from his chair and stretched. ‘Time for bed, love,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And thanks for listening. Even if we didn’t solve anything, it helps to talk it through.’

Audrey finished the row. She tucked her knitting behind a cushion and took her husband’s hand. ‘So what will you do tomorrow?’ she asked as they mounted the stairs.

‘Damned if I know,’ Tregalles said almost cheerfully. ‘Just say an extra prayer tonight and hope to God something turns up by morning!’

Two

Tuesday, March 3

‘And that’s it, Sergeant?’ Detective Superintendent Alcott demanded sharply as Tregalles concluded his report. His narrowed bird-like eyes bored into those of Tregalles accusingly. ‘That is almost exactly the same as you told me last week and the week before that, and it isn’t good enough. These people have to be stopped, but I didn’t hear anything in your report that suggests they will be.’

They were in Alcott’s office. DCI Paget was there as well. Normally Tregalles would have made his report to him, but since Paget had been out of the office on assignment for much of the time during the past few weeks, he had taken time out to catch up on whatever progress had been made during his absence.

And it was becoming very clear that ‘progress’ was hardly the word for it.

‘Dog hair, for God’s sake!’ Alcott snorted. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the only physical evidence you have after all this time is dog hair? Well, let me tell you, Sergeant, it simply isn’t possible to go through a house doing the amount of damage they do without leaving more evidence than that behind them. Prints, man, prints! Footprints, palm prints, fingerprints. Even if they were wearing gloves, they must have had to take them off at some point, especially when they stopped to have a meal. Knives, forks, plates, the inside of the fridge, under the edge of the table, on some of the food . . .’

‘All covered, I can assure you, sir,’ Tregalles said evenly, heeding Audrey’s caution as he was leaving for work. ‘I know it might not be easy,’ she’d warned, ‘but you’ve done your best, so don’t let them goad you into saying something you’ll regret later.’ Good advice, but not so easy to follow under Alcott’s challenging stare.

‘Charlie’s people have been extremely thorough,’ he continued doggedly. ‘I doubt if there’s a square inch that hasn’t been examined closely and dusted for prints of every kind.’

Inspector Charlie Dobbs, universally known by high and low alike throughout the service simply as ‘Charlie’, was in charge of the scenes-of-crime unit. ‘They found traces of talc on any number of things, which suggests that they were wearing latex gloves at all times. As for footprints, it seems they put something on over their shoes the moment they were inside the house; something that leaves no tread or trace at all. And as far as we can tell, they were careful to avoid stepping in anything they smashed.

‘And believe me, sir, that would not have been easy to do. You’ve seen some of the damage yourself, so you’ll know what I mean. On the one hand they act like drunken sailors on a mindless rampage, yet on the other they seem to maintain tight control over everything they do. It’s completely contradictory; it doesn’t make sense, at least not to me.

‘None of the homes have alarms,’ he continued, ‘and the thieves or vandals, or whatever they are, always seem to know when a house will be empty, and for how long, because they’re never in a hurry to leave. And that, it seems to me is the key; if we could find the source of that information, I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to find them.

‘And as I said earlier, sir –’ he hurried on before Alcott could speak – ‘we’ve blanketed the area in every case; gone from house to house; stopped people travelling through the area on foot, on bikes, in cars, to ask each and every one of them if they were in the vicinity around the time of each burglary, and if they saw or heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, and we’ve drawn a blank.

‘We think they have a car, because the houses they’ve hit are all over town. We suspect they leave it some distance from their target, then simply walk in and out. If that is the case, it could explain why they never take anything they can’t carry in their pockets. They’ve taken money, and the odd trinket or two, and yet they’ve never taken cash cards or passports or anything of that nature, and I think that’s because they don’t have a way of selling them on. They haven’t even taken anything worth pawning or selling on the street, so that line of enquiry is closed to us as well.’

Alcott eyed him bleakly. ‘So what do the profilers say?’ he asked harshly.

‘Not much, I’m afraid, sir. They believe there are two distinctly separate personalities at work here, one being led or directed by the other. The one doing the directing is a control freak, while the other is compliant and will probably do whatever the dominant one tells him to do without question.’ Tregalles hesitated. ‘There’s even been a suggestion that it
could
be a lad trying to impress his girlfriend, and they’re in this together.’

Alcott grimaced. ‘Possible, I suppose,’ he conceded, ‘but personally I doubt it. Is that the best the profiler can come up with?’

‘I’m afraid their behaviour doesn’t fit any of the normal patterns,’ Tregalles told him, ‘and she’s had a consultant in from Birmingham University as well, but he’s just as baffled by the evidence.’

‘And I’m sure that will cost us a pretty penny,’ Alcott muttered more to himself than to the others.

His mouth was set in a thin, tight line as he sat drumming nicotine-stained fingers on his desk. He couldn’t really fault Tregalles under the circumstances – the sergeant seemed to be doing everything possible – but the fact remained that there were two violent people out there who had to be stopped.

‘You say the homeowners were all away from home for different reasons?’ he said. ‘Are you quite sure there isn’t a connection there?’

‘If there is, we haven’t found it,’ Tregalles told him. ‘Mr Baxter in Dunbar Road is a single man who was working at one of the clubs on New Year’s Eve. Rose Wilson in Abbey Road was away from the Friday till Sunday at her sister’s wedding in Chester. The couple in Westfield Lane were out from about six till midnight at a retirement do here in town, while the Bolens in View Street were away for several days in Oxford to be with their daughter when she delivered their first grandchild. As for the Pettifers in Holywell Street last week, they went down to Cardiff for a couple of days to help Mrs Pettifer’s grandmother celebrate her ninety-fifth birthday.’

Alcott blew out his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration or divine guidance, but when that failed to appear, he fixed his gaze on Paget. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said grimly. ‘I can’t afford to have you tied up with CPS and West Mercia on the Greywald case any longer. As of now, I want you to concentrate on this case. No,’ he said forcefully as Paget opened his mouth to protest, ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I have no other choice. CPS isn’t going to like it, but you’ve been tied up with them for weeks, and the way they’re going on, nit-picking their way through every bit of evidence, you could be there for another six months. It’s all very well for them, but the appeal won’t be heard until September at the earliest, so they’ll have to make do with someone else.’

Alcott was right; it wasn’t going to sit well with the Crown Prosecution Service, but they would have to take that up with the superintendent. As far as Paget was concerned, he would be only too happy to return to his regular duties, even if it did mean taking on a case that seemed to be going nowhere. Certainly it would be better than what he’d been doing for the past few weeks.

Greywald Industries had been found guilty of allowing toxic chemicals to leach into marshlands in an area covered by both the West Mercia and the Westvale forces. The poisoned ground water had found its way into wells and water systems in the area, and a number of people and animals had become sick as a result. Greywald Industries was appealing the verdict, knowing that they would be facing a string of civil lawsuits if the verdict stood. So, for the past several weeks, Paget and a representative from the West Mercia force had been working with the Crown Prosecution Service re-examining every scrap of evidence that had been collected over a period of several years to make sure it would stand up to scrutiny in court.

In fact, Paget would be only too happy to be rid of it. Spending his days answering endless – and in many cases, seemingly pointless – questions by a battery of lawyers, was not his idea of a useful way to spend his time.

Alcott swung his chair around to face Tregalles. ‘This is no reflection on you, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but I can’t let matters stay as they are. The people in this town are frightened; the press have the bit between their teeth, and New Street is pushing hard for results. You, of course, will remain on the case, but DCI Paget will be in charge of the investigation.’

He turned back to Paget. ‘And I want you,’ he said, emphasizing his words by jabbing a finger in the DCI’s direction, ‘and
only
you, to deal with questions from the media. I’ll have a word with the press officer about that, and I want you to make sure that everyone, including Charlie’s people, understands they are to refer any questions from the media, or anyone else, for that matter, to you.’

The intercom on Alcott’s desk buzzed softly. The superintendent touched a button and said, ‘Yes, what is it, Fiona?’

‘Chief Superintendent Brock is on line one, sir,’ his secretary said. ‘He said you were supposed to have called him twenty minutes ago . . .? He sounded—’

‘Yes, yes, I can imagine what he sounded like, Fiona,’ Alcott broke in testily. ‘I’ll talk to him now. Though God knows he’s not going to like what I have to tell him,’ he muttered beneath his breath as his hand hovered over the button on line one.

A brisk nod told the two detectives Alcott wanted them to leave as he put the phone to his ear. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said cheerfully, as they made for the door. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner, but I was just discussing a new line of enquiry in this string of burglaries with DCI Paget, who is heading the investigation now . . .’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Tregalles said as he and Paget descended the stairs together. ‘I didn’t intend to land you with this, but on the other hand I have no idea what we can do that we haven’t already done. There has to be a connection between these people, some common thread, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. I felt like a perfect idiot in there.’