Unlikely Killer Page 6

  Entering the only bedroom, she could see that the bed, although nicely made, had a few ruffles in the covers, as if somebody had been sitting on it. Passing the uncluttered dressing table opposite the bed, Joanna felt uncomfortable with its waxen shine. Something was going on, but what? What was her bloody daughter up to?

  Fed up and wishing she had just been able to put her feet up over a mug of tea, Joanna realised she would have to return after work and scour the flat in more detail, see if any holiday brochures or likewise would explain Katie’s absence.

  “Bloody kids!” She exclaimed under her breath as she snatched the keys and her bag, and slammed the front door behind her, hastening back to the salon.

  Paul guided Katie to the ticket office at Liverpool Street Station. He pulled her credit card from the back pocket of his jeans and threw it on the counter. “One single, one return to Saxmundham please.”

  The man remained silent as he typed on the till, three tickets spilled out, and he took the credit card from the counter. He fed it through the till, and placed the receipt on the counter with a pen. Katie nervously glanced at Paul, and leant over the receipt, shielding it from his view. Instead of signing her name, she wrote ‘PLEASE HELP ME’ boldly. Without even comparing the slip to the credit card, the man slipped it into the till and chucked the tickets across the counter. Tears prickled at Katie’s eyes: she was more terrified than ever.

  Paul and Katie stepped off the bus, amazingly he had managed to keep his arm wrapped around her waist for the entire journey. Katie was tired and hungry, but the fear had subsided to complacency. Having tried for help and been ignored, there wasn’t much more she could do. Paul glanced around the small village of Peasenhall. It was pleasantly quaint. The main central road, which they stood beside, was flagged by old, character filled cottages, and a small stream trickled alongside.

  Gripping Katie firmly, Paul steered her back along the road in the direction they had come from. An elderly man nodded hello with a smile as he walked by, but Paul ignored him, his face stern. They crossed the stream on a rickety footbridge, and waded through the long, scratchy grass, towards a large barn-like structure. Dirty and black, it was in bad disrepair. Paul’s eyes scanned the area for onlookers, and, comfortable they hadn’t been watched, dragged Katie up to the building, through the burgeoning weeds.

  As they turned the peeling corner of the building, Paul spied a rotting board that clumsily covered an entrance. He tugged at the weakened wood, it breaking off in his fingers, creating a gap large enough for them to squeeze through.

  The smell was stale, dank, and the coolness hit them with a shiver. Their eyes adjusting slowly, the only light in the building came from their bodged entry hole, bundles of hay became apparent in the darkness. For the first time in many hours Paul released Katie from his grip. “Sit.” He demanded, and she sank into a prickly bale wearily.

  Paul crouched down and opened the hold-all, he pulled out the rope that had bound Katie for the previous six days, and tied it firmly, attaching the knot to a metal ring he found jutting from the side of the barn. He brought the soggy gag from the bag and placed it over her mouth, pinching her hair as he fixed it solidly. Katie didn’t resist at all, and she uttered no noise.

  His prisoner securely tethered, Paul stood, hands on hips, and surveyed her, the smile on his lips not reaching his eyes. “Welcome home, Rose, you’re back where you belong. You needn’t worry about anything, because I’ll take care of you.”

  Katie glared at Paul, the darkness protecting him from seeing the hate in her eyes: she detested him calling her Rose. “This is where you’ll stay for the next eleven days, then you are going to have an exciting trip. You’re going to your destiny, as I fulfil mine.”

  Eleven days? Katie’s thoughts whirled, what could that mean? What was happening in eleven days? What date was it? If she could determine his plan, she may be able to outwit him. Katie strained to work out what the date must be, and, although not sure, she estimated it was the twentieth of May. Eleven days ahead would be the thirty first of May. What significance was that?

  “I’m going to bring food soon, I want you to eat as much as you can, because in a couple of days I have to go away for a while. I don’t want to come back here and find you starved to death. You mustn’t die, do you hear me?”

  Katie wearily nodded, he didn’t make sense. Thirty first of May. Hold on, he’d said that date before, he’d said it at her flat. If only she could get her hands on his organiser, he did a lot of work on that, she was sure the significance of the date could be found on there.

  Friday 23rd May

  Paul confused Katie. She knew he was ill, after all, regular people didn’t go around tying up librarians, or rabbit on about important dates and destiny: but he was so kind. Not once did he swear at her, he ensured she ate, and ate well, and he was always considerate enough to make sure she had a drink nearby. He wasn’t interested in talking, but his presence was strangely unthreatening. Only his unusual outbursts, and not knowing what they meant, worried her.

  She assumed she’d been there a few days, the light and dark was fairly interchangeable in this new prison, so she had lost a definite track of time, Paul had been busy making an odd structure from the hay bales in the centre of the barn. She couldn’t work out what it was meant to be, but he had promised she would find out. Today she did.

  Paul untied the ropes bounding her sore wrists to the metal bar, and carefully led her towards the newly built structure. She could feel the hay prickling her skin as Paul pushed her inside his formation.

  “Sit.” Katie followed the instruction and sat tentatively. She heard the sound of metal against metal, then the cold feeling of chains against her skin. She realised with calm submission that she was again being bound, this time with metal shackles as well as rope.

  “My next duty is in four days. I don’t want to leave you alone, but I still have to find the woman, and make her my friend. I estimate that will take up to four days to do. I’m sorry, but please don’t be too lonely. Just try and sleep, it’ll pass in no time.”

  Katie made no response. Paul walked away, but soon she felt his warmth beside her once more: he placed a cold object by her leg. “Here’s a bucket of water, if you get thirsty, lean your head in, you will be able to sip through the gag. I can’t leave any food, because if I take your gag off, you might scream. I can’t risk getting caught. I will feed you well when I get back, a good meal, lots of lovely things to make up for leaving you.”

  Paul moved away. In the slim stream of light through the broken barrier of the makeshift entrance, Katie could see Paul lift a large object, then place it in front of her. Another was placed on top, and soon all beads of light had been blocked off. Terrified, Katie realised that Paul had built a cocoon for her to stay in, and a claustrophobic shudder ran through her body. Even if she was able to lose the gag and scream, it was unlikely anybody would hear her. She moved her hands a little, a metallic sound grated at her ears, and she groped about, feeling a metal hoop that was set in the ground. Her hands were chained to it. Katie had to give credit to Paul, he was thorough.

  Caroline Merris strode through the doors of the small salon and hesitated by the dated reception desk. Maureen caught her eye.

  “Yes love, can I help ya?” Maureen was excited, most of the salon’s clients were aged, and only wanting perms or colouring for their greying hair. What a contrast, this young girl had a lovely head of luscious locks.

  “I’m looking for Katie Joyce’s mother, I think she works here.”

  Maureen’s face fell. “Yes, love, I’ll just get her.”

  Joanna had already heard and was sauntering towards them. She nodded at Caroline. “I’m Joanna Joyce. What do you want?”

  Caroline glanced at Maureen, soon realising she had no intention of giving them any privacy. She focused on Joanna. “My name is Caroline Merris, I work with Katie.”

  “Oh God! What’s the bleeding girl done this time?”

 
Caroline balked, she was expecting a little more consideration for her friend. “I, um, just wondered if you’ve seen her recently, it’s just she hasn’t been to work for nine days now, and I haven’t been …”

  “No, not seen her at all. Some woman from the council rung the other day so I went to Katie’s flat, but she weren’t there. I meant to go back in the evening, but, tell the truth, I forgot all about it, what with all my shopping and whatnot.”

  And suddenly Caroline realised how lucky she was to have her own, caring mother. She grasped to re-compose herself. “I think we should contact the police, see if anything has happened, report her as missing …”

  “Missing! That bloody daughter of mine is always bleeding missing! Used to bloody slide down electric cables out of her bedroom window at night to go out and meet the boys.”

  Caroline shook her head slowly. “Well, I think I shall go to the police station anyway.” She turned to leave.

  Maureen nudged Joanna. “Oy, you wally. You should go with her - think of all those hunky men in uniform. I can hold fort here.”

  Joanna laughed. “Hey Karen, or whatever your name is, hold up. I’ll come with you, might bag myself a fella.” Caroline stopped walking, but didn’t look back: she was disgusted. No wonder Katie hadn’t mentioned her mother. She waited for Joanna to put her coat on.

  PC Smith groaned as the two women left the station. “Jesus H Christ, that was painful!”

  Sergeant Cross continued writing on a pad, his concentration intact. “What’s that then?”

  “Oh, some girl’s gone missing. Her colleague is worried, but her mum says she’s always going off with some man or other.” Smith had failed to take the conversation seriously.

  “Nothing I should know about then?” Cross signed his letter and folded it in three.

  Smith dropped the statements on Cross’s desk without conviction. “May as well a glance through, but, well, in your own time, know what I mean.” He laughed and headed for the door. “Coffee?”

  Paul had used the last of Katie’s cash to purchase a bus ticket to Saxmundham. Fortunately he had the return ticket to Liverpool Street, so he’d reached London before he needed any more money. He took Katie’s credit card from the side pocket of his holdall, a note of the pin number folded loosely around it. Feeding the card into the machine, he typed in the code, withdrawing two hundred pounds.

  Paul ambled to a nearby newsagent, picked up a copy of The Mail, and paid. The change paid for a Zone C ticket, he stepped onto the escalator running down towards the platforms.

  Sergeant Cross lived up to his name: he was furious. That imbecile Smith had to be the biggest idiot of the century. Cross slammed the statements onto his desk and marched through to the control room.

  “Sue, radio Smith. I want him back here, pronto.”

  Cross returned to his desk, and glanced at the statements again. Joanna Joyce’s was piffle, but Caroline Merris’s was more sinister. The description of the man that Caroline had last seen Katie with was haunting, and that bloody ignoramus, Smith, should have noticed the similarities. Cross rooted through the filing cabinet and pulled out the statement Smith had taken from the girl at the CMC Electrical. Carefully, he read and re-read the details of the couple using Annabel Keeley’s credit card.

  The man: five-foot ten-ish, blond, shoulder length, unkempt hair. Good looking. Jeans, jumper, trainers. Could be anyone. Except it matched the description of the man Katie Joyce had last been seen with on the day she went missing.

  The woman: five-foot two-ish, long, dark hair, brown eyes, pretty. Black trouser suit. Could be anyone. Except it matched the description of Katie Joyce, and she had been wearing a black trouser suit on the day she went missing.

  Krein had taken the call with interest, it was about time there was some movement in the Annabel Keeley case. A Sergeant Cross from Clapham South police station was concerned because a young girl, Katie Joyce, had been reported missing by her mother and a work colleague. Katie’s mother had shown the police around her daughter’s flat on Lillieshall Road, she was concerned that it was unusually tidy.

  Rooting through Katie’s paperwork, constables located the name of her bank, and on investigation her credit card was found to have been used today, in London, to obtain two hundred pounds. Oddly, it had also been used in Liverpool Street station in London, to purchase train tickets to a place named Saxmundham, in Suffolk, three days before.

  Krein’s phone trilled, he leant over and snatched the receiver, deep in thought. “Krein.”

  “DI Krein, sir, it’s Sergeant Cross at Clapham South again. I have some more information I thought you should know.”

  Krein waited, fixated, his pen hovering over a memo pad. “Go on.”

  “Barclaycard have received the receipt for the transaction on the twentieth of May, the one buying train tickets to Saxmundham. Get this, sir. Instead of a signature, ‘please help me’ is written in capital letters.”

  Krein stood up, adrenaline flowing through his veins as the atmosphere chilled eerily. “Sergeant Cross, thank you. Can you call Barclaycard and get them to report any further usage of the card to my number? Oh, and I also want the full details of where the card was used to obtain the cash today.”

  Cross agreed, his irritation that a detective inspector he didn’t even know was bossing him around was undetectable. He surmised Krein’s investigation was important, so he wasn’t about to be precious just yet.

  Paul had already phoned Eastbourne Council to ask them to recommend a nursing home suitable for his grandmother, who was suffering from Alzheimers. He’d told them money wasn’t a problem. They’d suggested three: Bayside House, Summers Grange, and The Risings Nursing Home, all in Eastbourne itself. That was a good start, but he needed the names of the residents, because it was his duty to find an eighty five year old lady. The only way to do this, he guessed, would be to gain access to the homes, one by one, until he found the right lady to help him on his path to destiny.

  Paul picked his bag up and left the phone booth: he headed away from Eastbourne Railway Station, on the lookout for a shop that sold torches. He would also need gloves.

  Darkness had fallen and Paul remained crouched under the dangling branches of a willow tree in the gardens of The Risings Nursing Home. A light was on in the entrance hall, and another in a room towards the back. A few of the upstairs rooms had light shining through the curtains, and Paul assumed that these were the bedrooms of the elderly residents. The door of the downstairs back room opened, Paul silently observed a middle aged lady bring a black rubbish bag out and place it in the bin. She returned to the house.

  Knowing he now had a chance of entering un-noticed, Paul crept closer to the door and carefully, quietly, tried the handle. A lock on the inside of the door held it shut. Paul was prepared to wait, he had time. The sky was clear and black, the night cold, and a gentle breeze lapped around Paul’s body. He had long since ceased feeling any discomfort, the important thing was finding the information needed for his next job.

  It took an hour, or so, but his patience was worthwhile, because the door opened again: the same lady came out and traipsed across the garden to the small car park. Paul saw the opportunity and slipped through the doorway, into an unattractive, yet functional kitchen. Hearing the woman’s footsteps returning, Paul opened a narrow door, and dived into a spacious, musty smelling larder. He pulled the door to as the footsteps plodded into the kitchen, silencing his nervous breath as the back door slammed shut, the bolt scraping back across.

  Paul could hear the woman pottering about for a short while, pans clattering as they were put away, and taps running as she cleaned. With effort, Paul remained noiseless, although his legs were cramped and uncomfortable, and he breathed out heavily, relieved, when the light of the kitchen snapped off, veiling the larder in a deep blackness. Paul waited a few seconds more, he opened the cupboard and stepped into the darkened room.

  Stealthily, he stepped into the main body of the Victorian house:
he needed to find the reception desk, or an office, wherever the personal details of the residents were kept. He reached an expansive hallway, it’s polished wooden floorboards hindering his attempts at silence. Trying various doors, the third opened to a room containing two cumbersome filing cabinets. Deftly, he sifted through a rack of files, eventually pulling out a well-worn book.

  Scanning the pages, relief flooded him as he found the lady he was looking for: ‘Room 12: BLESSING, Maud Ethel. Reg. 14/7/07. DOB 10/1/1923. NoK ANTON, Julia (daughter)’

  Paul soaked Maud Blessing’s details into his memory, remembering them with clarity. She was eighty-five. This nursing home specialised in Alzheimers care. Perfect. And by coincidence her daughter was named Julia. No, not coincidence, it was fate. Maud Blessing had lived her entire life for the moment he was arranging: she was destined to be Paul and God’s next duty.

  Saturday 24th May

  Elaine Baylis could not help but be attracted to the handsome man who stood before her. But then again, she had a job to do, and letting Maud Blessing’s long lost great-grandson visit without checking with Mrs Anton, well, that was strictly against the rules.

  Paul grinned at Elaine amicably. “Come on, Maud would be thrilled to see me, you know she would. It would do her the world of good.”

  Elaine glanced at the visitor’s book, tempted to break the rules just this once, after all, he was gorgeous, and it would mean she could get to know him better. “I don’t know,” she hesitated, “I’ll be in such trouble. Why can’t I just phone her daughter and check it’s okay?”

  Paul’s smile diminished, his brow knitted sorrowfully as he leant towards Elaine, his voice lowering to a whisper. “I didn’t want to say anything, after all, it’s embarrassing for me, and embarrassing for my mother. I should imagine Mrs Anton would be ashamed too, if she were to hear of this.” Elaine’s eyes scanned his, intrigued. “You see, my mother is Julia Anton’s illegitimate daughter. Julia fell pregnant while she was at boarding school, which was a disgrace in those days. She was sent away to have the baby, my mother, and the baby was adopted. After my mother had given birth to me, she tried to trace her birth family.”