[Inspector Peach 05] - The Lancashire Leopard Page 15

  Lucy Blake studied the intense profile beside her as Tony drove the Mondeo back to the station. Eventually she said, “Don’t broadcast it among the boys, but there are times when I don’t much like women.”

  Pickard kept his eyes on the road, digested this for a moment before he said, “You believed all that?”

  “I think it was probably substantially true. He’s the kind who would invite teasing, even now, and he must have been worse ten years ago. That sort of teasing soon becomes a kind of bullying.”

  “I’d like to hear Rosie Woodhouse’s account of those months.”

  “She resolutely refused to bring charges. Said it was a joke that had got out of hand. She’d have got compensation easily enough, but she evidently didn’t want it publicised.”

  “She could have lost an eye. And whatever the reasons, he obviously doesn’t like women. He more or less admitted that, in the end.”

  They were silent for the rest of the short drive, each mulling over the possibility that Michael Devaney might have turned his resentment into a war against the whole sex.

  Fourteen

  Friday, February 1st

  Years ago, this had been a busy little place. Crowds had gathered at the railway station every morning, searching for seats on the train that ran from Hellifield to Manchester, through the busy mill towns of Brunton and Bolton and a multitude of smaller villages like this one.

  The line was still there and trains still ran upon it. But there were fewer of them, and they hastened through this place now, for the station had long since ceased to function. But its buildings had not been demolished, and on this night their shadows cast a Gothic outline against the slim, sharp, crescent moon and a sky dappled with stars. It was a clear night; clear enough to make the orange glow from the lights of Bolton, three miles away over the hill, seem brighter and much nearer than they were.

  The man who stood patiently within the station shadows was well wrapped against the cold. He wore a navy roll-necked sweater over a vest and a thick shirt; his lower limbs were encased in thermal underpants and heavy trousers. He had thick grey socks and rubber-soled shoes upon his feet: he had considered wearing his boots tonight, for warmth, but he knew his shoes were quieter. They were more anonymous, too, if he should happen to leave a print. He had a thick black coat on top of all these, a cap pulled tight about his ears, and even a woollen scarf about his lower face.

  And the hands he occasionally flapped silently across his chest during his vigil wore a brand-new pair of thick leather gardening gloves.

  The little cinema, like the station, had long been closed. What life there was in the village revolved mostly around the pub these days, but the final drinks for this night had been served twenty minutes earlier. The watcher saw the last men come out of the Fighting Cock, then reel unsteadily away as the cold night air hit their brains and turned their legs to cork. Four of them clumsily prevailed upon the fifth member of their group to leave his car in the park behind the pub rather than attempt to drive it home.

  There was some rowdy leave-taking, a couple of shushes, much laughter as they departed in different directions. Surprisingly quickly, it was all over, and silence stole softly back into the village, as the noise of revelry became more distant and then disappeared altogether. The lights were still on in the pub, but they were the only ones he could see from where he stood.

  The moment was nearly at hand, and he felt the excitement which was now familiar rising within him. He had feared that she might come out whilst those men were still around the place. He would have abandoned his plan, if she had: there was always another night. Even another woman and another place, if this was too dangerous after all.

  But he knew now that it was going to be all right. The friendly, enveloping silence had dropped upon the place; the darkness which was his friend seemed thicker than ever without the noise.

  He heard the barmaid calling her goodnights to the owner and his wife as they worked on with the business of clearing the tables and washing the glasses. She stood for a moment outside the pub, looking up and down the road. Then she shrugged and set off in the direction he knew she must take. That was the benefit of proper research, he told himself, as he slipped into place twenty yards behind her on his silent rubber soles.

  Sally Cartwright told herself that she was not really nervous. For a few nights after the third girl had been killed in Brunton, her husband had picked her up twenty minutes after closing time in the car; it only meant leaving the sleeping children for five minutes, he assured her. Then, as the weeks slipped away and the Leopard dropped out of the headlines, his resolution had faltered. She would find Ken dozing in front of the telly, she was sure, apologetic as he started awake and realised that she was already in the house.

  Well, there was no real danger, was there? The killings had been over at Brunton and beyond; almost certainly the Leopard lived twenty miles or more from here. Anyway, she was only 600 yards from home: Ken had measured it. And she wasn’t really afraid of the dark, she told herself, as she passed beyond the last street light and turned on to the lane towards home.

  All the same, she lengthened her stride, walking so fast through the crisp night air that she was almost running, panting a little as she made hard for the bend that would reveal the friendly lights of home.

  It was her breathing that stopped her hearing the man until he was right at her elbow. She opened her mouth to scream but he called out that there was no need to be afraid, said that he would show her something to reassure her about him. Then, as she hesitated and he thrust one hand beneath the breast of his coat to produce it, she saw the gardening glove on his other hand, and screamed.

  It was but a single cry, the last sound she would ever make. Then the rough leather of the gloves was at her throat, the strong thumbs within them were pressing hard upon her windpipe. She died in twenty seconds, the horror bulbous in her wide eyes as she looked up at the head above those dreadful hands. Her last sight on earth was his blazing, exultant face.

  He put her body down beside the gate into a field which marked the only break in the long black hedge. Then he walked swiftly, rhythmically back towards the derelict station and his car. He would not run; part of the pleasure was the perfect, unhurried execution of the deed. He was out of the lane and back on the wider road before he met anyone. He called a goodnight to a late dog-walker on the other side of the road, was pleased to hear how steady his voice was.

  The car engine purred softly alive with the first touch of the starter. He eased it away from the shadows of the station, passed unhurriedly through the outskirts of Bolton and on to the A666, which would take him towards home. He was careful not to speed: it would be ironic indeed to be stopped by a police patrol for such a petty offence, after what he had just completed.

  Later on, he turned down a side road which led him to the Leeds and Liverpool canal. He put the stones he had taken from underneath the front seat of the car into the gardening gloves and cast them with a soft splash into oblivion. Then he climbed unhurriedly back into the driver’s seat and made for home. Careful preparation and cool execution: those were the secrets of success.

  He was growing quite attached to the ridiculous label the press had given him. The Lancashire Leopard had struck again.

  Fifteen

  Saturday, February 2nd

  Superintendent Tucker was having a trying day. He had feared he would have, as soon as he heard of the Leopard’s fourth strike, but that didn’t make it any better. He had been forced to cancel his golf and come in to the station on a Saturday morning. He had endured a difficult session with the Chief Constable and the Head of the Serious Crime Squad, in which his weak grasp of the detail of the case had been made very obvious.

  And now one of the media conferences he regarded as his greatest strength was going wrong.

  He had little or nothing to offer the news-hawks, many of whom were as irritated as he was to be here on a Saturday. And his bête noir, Alf Houldsworth of th
e local Evening Dispatch, was laconically translating his every answer into a lurid tabloid headline. Audibly, to the sound of cheap laughter from the rows of chairs behind him.

  “We are told that police patrols have been doubled. Was the body of this latest victim of found by one of them?”

  Tucker took a deep breath. “No. Mrs Cartwright was unfortunately found by her husband. He was alarmed when she did not arrive home as expected and went out hoping to meet her. He discovered her body by the roadside in the lane where they lived.”

  “HOPEFUL HUSBAND FINDS HORROR IN HEDGE,” intoned Houldsworth.

  “And have you any clearer ideas on the Leopard’s identity as a result of this latest outrage?”

  “Our Scenes of Crime team is still at the site. As yet, I am not able to relay any of the findings to you.”

  “POLICE PLODDERS PERPLEXED. LANCASHIRE LEOPARD LAUGHING,” Alf summarised helpfully.

  “One of the excuses you have offered for your failure to arrest this man is your contention that he left little behind at the scenes of his first three killings. Has he revealed any more of himself in this latest one?”

  Tucker coughed nervously, trying not to look at Houldsworth. “It is too early to say yet whether the killer has left behind anything more significant than on previous occasions.”

  “CAREFUL KILLER CONFOUNDS DUMB DETECTIVES,” suggested Houldsworth, making a note of the fact on his pad.

  “Over fifty years ago, all the males in this town were fingerprinted in the search for a child murderer. As a result, the killer was identified and eventually hanged. Should you not now be beginning a similar exercise?”

  “That would be a massive exercise. A massive invasion of people’s privacy. We are not considering it at present.”

  “CID’S OBSTINATE OSTRICHES FAIL TO FACE FACTS,” said Houldsworth happily.

  Tucker glared at him, then returned to his questioner. “In the case you mention, where a child was taken from the hospital and brutally killed, the police were certain that the killer was a local man. Modern criminals are more mobile. We cannot be certain that the Leopard is a Brunton man.”

  “MOBILE MANGLER MAKES MAYHEM AND MOCKS,” said Alf. He lit another cigarette. This was taxing work, but rewarding. Tucker was getting redder and redder.

  “Surely with all the resources of modern science, the killer must be leaving something around that you can pick up on?”

  Tucker was tempted to suggest vaguely that they had something this time, just to call off the pack. But he caught the single glittering eye of Houldsworth through his cloud of smoke and thought better of it. “A full team is still at the site, as I say. Certain items will no doubt be removed for forensic examination. And we await the results of the post-mortem examination.” He looked at the sea of unresponsive faces and said, desperately and unwisely, “We have even had dogs at the scene.”

  “FORENSIC FARCE. LEOPARD LAUGHS AT LABRADORS,” said Houldsworth, reacting to his responsive audience.

  Tucker had had enough. He had nothing to offer them, no titbit of progress he could reserve for the end, in the hope that it might receive favourable emphasis. He rose and said, “Our recommendation is that women should not go out unaccompanied in the hours of darkness. You may rest assured that as soon as there is progress, I shall inform you of it.”

  He had tried to make his last sentence sound portentous, but the effect was spoiled by a scraping of chairs, as his experienced audience recognised the end of the briefing. He turned and marched towards the door behind him, stumbling over the bottom step of the platform in his haste to be away.

  Alf Houldsworth sat and watched this departure thoughtfully. “TORMENTED TUCKER TELLS TALE OF RETRIBUTION, TURNS TAIL, TRIPS AND TOOLS OFF,” he said with alliterative relish. He produced a small hip flask and happily toasted the thought.

  *

  Sunday, February 3rd

  “It’s good of you to see me on a Sunday,” said DI Peach.

  “It’s flattering that you should want to see me at all, a seasoned policeman like you!” said Dr Hamish Wishart dryly. “It’s usually old hands like you who are the most cynical about forensic psychology.”

  “I like to keep an open mind. And anyway, I’m desperate!”

  The two men grinned at each other. Wishart had agreed to meet him in the College Arms, a pub which on weekdays would have been crowded with students, but at this Sunday lunchtime was a quiet place. The narrow Manchester streets which had once provided its local clientele had long since been cleared to make way for the tall university buildings which accommodated the students of the new century.

  Peach said, “I looked in on the scene of the crime on my way over here. I don’t think the Leopard will have left any more of himself behind than he did at the first three places. We’ve got a man who thinks he spoke to him, but it was away from any street lights and he didn’t see much. Youngish and over six feet tall, he thinks. They nearly always overestimate the height, when it’s a violent criminal.”

  “On the other side of Bolton, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. About three miles the other side.”

  “And you’d like me to think aloud about this, you say?”

  Peach sighed. “Yes. Be as speculative as you like. You’ve an audience of one today, and I won’t quote you elsewhere if you prove to be wide of the mark.”

  Wishart grinned, stroking his sandy beard with that unconscious gesture which he seemed to find an aid to thought. Perhaps that was why he’d grown it, thought Peach; perhaps that was why there were more beards among intellectuals than in the circles in which he usually moved. Wishart said, “I can put up various hypotheses which you won’t be able to knock down today; you’ll have to test them in the field first. Let’s start by pinpointing the geographical context of these murders.” He produced a rudimentary but neatly sketched map from his pocket and completed it by putting in the exact location of this fourth and latest of the Leopard’s killings.

  2nd Killing

  (Vicky Draper) El

  CLITHEROE

  BOLTON

  “I drew this after you’d phoned me this morning. Now, would you say that the killer had a detailed knowledge of the place where each murder took place?”

  “Yes. I think he knew each area well to start with, knew it might be the kind of place where he would find a woman on her own late at night.”

  “And we agreed the other day that he was a planner. That he probably researched the opportunities, perhaps even the individual women he killed, before the actual night of the crime.”

  “Yes. I’m certain of it. The first woman he killed, on the outskirts of Preston, was Judith Anderson, a twenty-six-year-old married woman teacher who had been visiting her sick mother. She had walked back to her own home at around the same time on the five nights which preceded her death. I think that he had decided upon the area, knew that it was quiet enough for the kind of killing he planned. I think he then selected a particular victim, probably watching her on previous nights, noting both her route and the particular place on that route where he might kill her with the least chance of detection.”

  “And the same with the second one?”

  “Yes. That was on the outskirts of Clitheroe, well out beyond any street lighting — similar to Friday night’s killing in many respects. A forty-one-year-old unmarried civil servant, Vicky Draper, who had a single drink in the pub there with her friends after evening class. Their routine this time was weekly rather than nightly, but just as regular. My guess would be that chummy had watched what happened on previous weeks and was there waiting for her, because again he’s chosen the best spot, the one furthest removed from houses. This woman was one of only two in the group who walked home, and the other lived within a hundred yards of the pub.”

  “And the third?”

  Peach thought hard. “We thought at first that Hannah Woodgate was an opportunist effort. But now I don’t think so. The girl was at Manchester University, as you probably know. But she had t
he habit of attending the Saturday night dances at King George’s Hall in Brunton, as a lot of the local girls do. I think the Leopard was expecting his victim to be there that night, and without a boyfriend to walk her home. And again he chose his spot, by a group of allotments, a deserted place in a built-up area. It was a short cut to the girl’s home which she habitually used. At first we thought that argued that the girl’s killer must be someone known to her, since he knew so much of her habits. Now I think it fits the Leopard’s pattern of careful preparation.”

  “Right. And Friday night’s killing follows a similar pattern?”

  “Yes. It’s a replication in many respects of the second killing, the one near Clitheroe. Sally Cartwright was thirty-six. An attractive brunette, as the papers are already saying. But a respectable woman, mother of two boys. Her husband was made redundant last year and had to take a job on much lower pay. She was supplementing that by working as a barmaid at the local pub, the Fighting Cock, three nights a week.”

  Wishart nodded. “So she would leave at the same time each night. Our man could have researched that, could have singled her out as his next victim.”

  “I’m certain he did. He could have either waited for her where he killed her, or followed her from the pub until she reached the quiet lane where she lived. She was killed within two hundred yards of her home: as with the others, we’ve found no traces of a vehicle being parked near the spot.”

  “Right.” Wishart smiled his satisfaction at the logic of this, as if he were making a suggestion about some abstract problem rather than the brutal deaths of four women. “I think we’re looking for a local man. Criminals have the same limitations as the rest of us, and the most serious one is knowledge. They need to be familiar with the ground to operate effectively. This fellow has detailed knowledge of the places where he’s killed. He’s a Lancastrian, or he has lived here for some considerable time. The papers have been full of speculation about the Leopard driving in from well outside the area, probably coming up or down the M6 or over the M62 from Yorkshire. I say he’s a local, very probably from north-east Lancashire. Want me to go out on a limb?”