The Handshaker (28 page)

“True, but we only have Croft’s word that he found her there this morning. For all we know, he might have spotted her hanging in the woods from the upper floor of his place the other day, then gone to investigate, and thought, ‘great, just what I needed,’ then dreamed up the note, complete with anagrams, to cover himself.”

“Bullshit,” she sniped. “Have you checked the note? Did it come by post? Because if it did, you’ve shot the bolt. He was with me until almost eight o’clock last night, too late to catch the last post.”

“So he posted it earlier.” Shannon craned his neck forward trying to see what was causing the delay. “What is the bloody hold up?”

Millie reminded him. “They’re building a new bus lane.”

“Fat lot of good it’ll do. Just kick the jam back another half a mile.” Shannon turned back and faced her. “And that’s another thing. You and Croft in the pub last night. What was this he was telling you about some counsellor?”

“Evelyn Kearns,” Millie reminded him.

As they crawled forward, she related the tale as Croft had told it. It did not come from her as clearly as it had from the hypnotist, and she concluded lamely, “It’s just about possible.”

Shannon snorted. “My eye.” Once more he craned to see beyond the traffic ahead. “What the hell is holding us up?” He rounded on her again. “So did you go see this woman?”

“No I didn’t. It was too late. I was supposed to be there first thing today, but I got a bit tied up.”

Shannon chuckled. “So did Victoria Reid.”

“Just fuck off, Ernie,” his sidekick cursed.

“Then stop talking out of your backside.” Shannon paused to let his warning sink in. “Who’s the expert on hypnotism? Croft. And who’s making all the claims on hypnotism? Croft. I’m telling you, Millie, he’s taking the piss, and when you go see this old … this woman, you’ll find she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Taking Shannon’s mind off the traffic problems, Millie said, “You’re clutching at too many straws, Ernie. You’re saying The Handshaker conveniently strung Victoria up in Allington Woods and Croft spotted her, worked out all the details, wrote the note, posted it off and still made the Bath Inn to meet me at six thirty, which means he did it all in two hours from Evelyn Kearns’ home, and I don’t believe it.”

“You know for a fact he was at her home, do you?”

“Too easy to check,” Millie countered. “One call to his doctor will confirm whether Croft spoke to him, and it will also confirm that he was directed to Evelyn. Even simpler, when we get back, while you and Thurrock interrogate him, why don’t I go see her?”

“Sounds good to me. It may give us a push in one direction or the other. As for Victoria Reid, we’re assuming The Handshaker took her, but we won’t know for sure until the forensic is in. Croft is a rich man. For all we know, he could have paid someone to dress up like The Handshaker for the benefit of the customers and CCTV at the petrol station. All I’m saying is, Croft is guilty as hell of something. I’ll stake my job on it.”

“You’re certainly staking your pension on it if you’re wrong,” Millie observed. She picked up the radio. “Alpha Four to control. Ronnie, it’s Millie. Can you look up an address for Evelyn Kearns for me. She’s a counsellor.”

“Wilco, ma’am.”

They had reached the point where two lanes filtered down to one. Shannon forced his way over, clinging dangerously to the pickup truck’s bumper, irritating the driver alongside him. Millie gave the man a bleak smile of apology as Shannon accelerated away only to stop several yards further on for a set of traffic lights.

“This bloody town gets worse every day,” Shannon grumbled.

The hiatus had give Millie time to think things through. “Ernie, you’ve got a stack of circumstantial evidence and one iffy link to a pross. What makes you so sure?”

Once clear of the traffic lights exacerbating the traffic jam, Shannon accelerated quickly down the dual carriageway towards Shambles Roundabout. He noticed idly that Thurrock was no longer in view.

“You know this case he keeps on about; Heidelberg?” he asked.

Millie threw her cigarette out the window. “What of it?”

“You couldn’t find nothing on it, could you?” Shannon asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, like I was trying to tell you earlier, I did. I got onto Division and they asked the NCIS to chase it up. No one came up with anything. They asked Interpol and trawled the web for it.” Shannon braked once more for a set of lights.

Millie frowned. “He did say it was obscure.”

“So obscure that it doesn’t exist,” Shannon assured her. “Croft made it all up. It’s in his head, no one else’s. I was just about to push him on it when you turned up back there.” He jerked his head back the way they had come.

“Bullshit.” Millie’s remark, intended for herself, was too loud and Shannon heard it.

“All right then,” he asked, accelerating away from the lights. “What do you think?”

Up ahead, the town centre approached rapidly and Millie took a moment to ponder everything as they skirted Shambles roundabout, passing the exit for the by-pass and turning onto the lower end of Yorkshire Street.

“I think you’re wrong.”

Shannon was about to protest, but Millie pressed on.

“I think it all needs to be checked out, certainly. I wouldn’t have come to his place if I didn’t need an explanation for that pen. We’ve left no stones unturned up to now and I don’t see why we should make an exception in Croft’s case because, as you point out, he fits part of the bill, but I think we’ll find that he really is what he claims to be. An innocent bystander with the right knowledge, dragged into it without so much as a by your leave nor kiss my arse, nor nothing, for reasons which we don’t know. I’ll tell you something else, too. I think when the SOCOs and doctor have finished with Victoria Reid, we’re gonna find she was fucked bareback and the spunk will be The Handshaker’s, not Croft’s. And when that happens, Ernie, his girlfriend, if we get her alive, will come down on you from a great height.”

Silence fell. Shannon concentrated on his driving, negotiating the ins and outs of Union Street where buses pulled into stops and illegally parked cars obstructed the carriageway. At the bottom of Peter Street, he turned sharp right and fifty yards further on, hung a left in to Barn Street and the rear entrance to the police station. Shannon led the way into reception.

“Ronnie,” Millie asked, “where has Thurrock taken Croft?”

Sergeant Simpson was mystified. “Thurrock? Croft? I haven’t seen them ma’am.”

37

Passing through the village of Allington, The Handshaker called at the post office, where he bought stamps. He climbed back into the car, and reversed into Moss Lane so he could retrace his route towards Oaklands. He stopped, tucking the car tight into the hedgerows, and leaving the engine running, he considered the situation.

Everything had gone exactly to plan… almost.

Croft had obviously solved the early part of the anagram, gone into the wood and found Victoria. The Handshaker had driven past the Allington Woods visitor parking area three times now, and each time the plain white vans of the police Scene of Crime Team and Scientific Support were parked there, the woods were cordoned off and uniformed officers stood at the entrance to the footpaths. Meanwhile, the senior officer, Shannon, whom The Handshaker had seen arrive, was in Oaklands, presumably talking to Croft. Eventually, two more officers arrived at the house, and The Handshaker guessed that they had found Joyce. The next thing he knew, Croft was led out to one of the patrol cars, and the whole lot of them drove off.

Everything exactly as he anticipated, but now the bastards had put a cop on the drive and he had not planned on that. With hindsight, it was the logical thing for them to do, to prevent anyone tampering with non-existent evidence in that house but it did not help The Handshaker. With a cop on the front door he could hardly march in and dispatch the housekeeper.

Deep in thought he tossed the options in his mind.

Could he kill the cop? Yes he could, but it would throw the timetable out of kilter by confirming that Croft was innocent, and while such confirmation was required, it was not desirable for at least 24 hours. Time enough for Croft to suffer the hell of incarceration and interrogation.

An idea struck him. Could he take the cop? She was another jigaboo by the look of her, like that inspector. Or maybe a Paki, the same one who’d been in the Spinners when Sandra obligingly chucked herself off the upper level. Typical police procedure. You want a menial job doing, give it to a wog. Not that The Handshaker disapproved of such a policy. It was all they were fit for.

Could he? Dare he? He’d have to be bloody careful that the daily didn’t come out of the house, but it would be a real coup to nick one of them from right under their noses. And they would not twig she was even missing for a good few hours, maybe a full day, so Croft would still be put through the mill long enough to knock the stuffing out of him.

It was daunting, it was daring, but if he could pull it off, it would be a masterstroke.

Near to the woods, half a mile from Oaklands, there were the media, TV and press, waiting for statements from the filth. He noticed that fat bitch, Carol Russell, amongst their number. Working for both the
Scarbeck Reporter
and
Radio Scarbeck
, and she hated Croft almost as much as The Handshaker did. If she got wind of the arrest, she’d be up at Oaklands like a shot. He would have to be quick getting the wog cop away from the house before Scarbeck’s most famous reporter turned up.

Grinning savagely, he slipped the car into gear, knocked the handbrake off and slowly let the clutch in, keeping engine noise to a minimum. He was just another motorist, pulling out into the main road.

He was not wearing the old anorak he used as The Handshaker, and the car was different, too. It was his own Peugeot and not the Ford the police had been seeking for two years. The policewoman would never make the connection, but there were other questions he needed to ask himself. Questions on how he would proceed further down the line.

How would he get her into his house? He wouldn’t. He’d leave her in the shed. Suppose she didn’t react? No point even trying hypnosis. He had no idea of her response and if he failed, it would give everything away. He reached across, flipped open the glove box, and clasped a tiny syringe. He was running out. He’d have to order more before long. Or maybe not. He was into the final phase and there was little need of it from now on. Once Croft and Sinclair were history, he could leave Scarbeck, settle somewhere else, and go back to the old way.

He cruised slowly, steadily along Allington Lane up to the sharp bend where the blackened stone of Oaklands’ entrance stood. He put on a right turn signal, and eased the wheel over, guiding the nose of his tiny car through the entrance. On seeing the police officer, he stopped.

She came towards him and he got out, turning up the hood of his cagoule against the rain. His hand closed around the syringe.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

The blue badge on her bright lemon, hi-visibility coat identified her as PC Begum. So she was Paki. The Handshaker wondered idly if the tales he’d heard of them were true? They were supposed to be the supreme fucks because they understood that their bodies were there for a man’s pleasure.

“I’m afraid I’m lost,” he said.

She drew nearer. A pretty thing, maybe 20 years old, dark, almond eyes gazing from under a short, jet black fringe, her skin contrasting sharply with her crisp, white blouse.

“I was looking for Esterham Road,” he told her.

“You’re not far,” said WPC Begum.

As she continued to speak, The Handshaker risked a glance up at the house. No sign of any movement behind any of the windows, but some rooms had net curtains and anyone could be watching from behind the glass. This would have to be fast.

Begum obligingly flung out an arm, pointing back towards the village.

“That’s Allington Lane. It becomes Esterham Road on the other side of the village. Was there a particular address you’re looking for?”

She never learned that there was not. Like lightning, The Handshaker grabbed her outstretched arm and swiftly jammed the needle in, ramming the plunger home.

Begum barely had time to say “ouch” before she was slipping into a confused daze.

The Handshaker whipped open the rear door of his car and bundled her in. Her hand wove drunkenly towards the radio at her waist. He beat her to it, snatching it from her. He pressed her onto the rear seat, stripped off his cagoule and threw it over her. Leaning in, he looked down at her pretty face and clubbed her once on the jaw. As her eyes closed, he prayed he had not killed her. He wanted her once or twice before he sent her to Allah.

Climbing behind the wheel, he spun the car round and raced out of the gates, along Allington Lane towards Scarbeck. A quick glance as he came out of the gates saw the TV van making its way up with Carol Russell’s car behind.

Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. He’d done it. The job lacked the finesse of his previous abductions, but he had bloody done it, got himself a bit of black in his car, a wog and a cop to boot, and he’d done it in broad daylight. The only downside was that he’d have to wait until tonight before he could enjoy her.