CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Something was not right about Rocky James. He did not quite fit the profile of the serial killer. Not the one responsible for the murder and mutilation of the young women, the one now commanding massive media coverage, the butcher who was now the most talked about mass murderer in the country.
Rocky James could not lay claim to the most victims. There were more than a handful who had been responsible for more murders but he was up there with the worst when it came to the brutality, the sheer viciousness of the crimes he had committed. He was in the minds of the policemen involved in the case definitely one of a kind. Yet, Detective David Maguire felt uneasy.
James was an animal. There was no doubt about that. One gigantic prized prick of an animal. Only a fully paid up member of a sub-species would take enjoyment in inflicting pain on a person like James did. Not only the physical act but revelling in the build-up to it. The evidence was that he would spend hours tormenting his women friends with what he planned to do to them. Then he would prolong their punishment as long as possible.
Fortunately though it was not ever as long as he hoped. The victims were not the kind to sit back and take it without putting up a fight and more than a few of James’ lady friends knew how to fight when their back was against a wall. Invariably James came away with injuries himself.
Maguire wondered if James received some satisfaction from that as well. Was he a masochist as well as a sadist? Perhaps. But none of that convinced Maguire that James was the serial killer being hunted the length and breadth of Britain. One fact stood out for Maguire. Apart from his late wife, James was not believed to have killed anyone.
Maguire believed the real murderer was still out there. Preparing maybe for his next victim.
*
I was sitting in my office wrestling with indecision.
Should I pen my column for the South China Morning Post around the uprisings in the Middle East and North Africa or the aftermath of the home-made riots in England? Both had the weight. Both would be read with considerable interest in Hong Kong.
My decision was simple in one way, not so straightforward in another. Do I plump for historical events? Or do I go for sensation? Not an easy choice. Fortunately I was temporarily saved by the bell. When I answered the door who should I confront but a friend I had not seen in years.
John Dunstable was a man who had throughout his working career had jobs that most of us would die for. He had worked on respectable newspapers and then moved over to the civil service where he worked closely with many of those journalist friends he left behind. The departments he served were never crisis hit. He was not sent to the National Health Service. He avoided having to answer the criticisms levelled at the prison service. Foreign affairs he would most likely have been good at but those pitfalls he missed out on as well. Instead John was a spokesman for the Minister with responsibility for, among other soft areas, sport and entertainment. His office was in a bright and airy building in cultured Westminster, surveying a skyline hard to match anywhere else in the world, and when he wasn’t there he spent a good deal of his time at high priced and highly prized events we could only dream of attending. Yet he was not happy.
John, whenever I saw him, would furrow his brow, wobble his head from side to side and whisper: “It’s the pressure Zack. The pressure. It’s the pressure.”
What pressure I would wonder. Give me some of that pressure please John I would say to myself. Yes, please, share some of your troubles with me. Here, let me attend the FA Cup final for you. Or join the Minister on his next trip to Flushing Meadow, or the London games in 2012. I will gladly relieve you of some of that burden, I would imagine. Now, here he was. Back in my life after an absence of more than a year.
I gripped his hand in mine. “John boy,” I grinned. “How are you? What brings you down to the slums?”
I had followed his pressurised lifestyle of course. Anyone interested in sport was aware of his travels and tribulations, though they were problems they would gladly have endured. His current Minister was a loose cannon who was wonderful fodder for the press but also it has to be said a slight problem for the press secretary, though I would still not have termed it pressure.
“A well earned escape from the foot-in-mouth department,” he rejoined. He held my hand longer than I would have expected. “I have run away for two glorious weeks. This is my first day a free man and I happened to find myself down here near the palace when I remembered I had a friend in the Queen’s neighbourhood. So here I am, on the loose and I could just about murder for a pint. What about it? Can you get away for an hour or three?” John took a step back and his bushy eyebrows shot up dangerously. “It will be your last chance for a while old mate. Tomorrow I pile into the Honda and head into the wild grey yonder. Twelve whole days driving wherever I bloody well feel like, whenever I feel like it. So what do you say? For old time’s sake. A pint or ten?”
It was, as they say in the movies, an offer I could not refuse. Nor did I want to.
Murdering fellow Muslims and murdering English women could wait. A keg of real ale was out there waiting to be murdered by us. We adjourned as a starter to the Colonies just a few blocks away.
When we called it a day we had also been to Waxy O’Connors in Soho, O’Neils a short walk away, two more pubs whose names I could not recall and would never be able to remember though I would probably return to them at some stage in a future life, and finally to Gordon’s Wine Bar in Villiers Street. I had been taken there about three months before by a contact I had and decided it was worth another visit. John took little persuasion. The thought of ending the evening with a nice glass of red and some quality cheese appealed to both of us.
We managed between us to drink two bottles of good red wine which was a serious mistake. Beer and wine do not mix with me normally and this night when I was still the victim of friendly Irish good cheer was different only in that it went more directly to my head, lodged itself there heavily for a time and then began to swirl in a most unsettling manner. As we were leaving Gordon’s who should I bump into, literally, but Detective Maguire.
“Well, Detective Maguire,” I mumbled. “How are you? Let me introduce you to my friend John Dunstable. John, this is Detective Maguire who has been leading the manhunt for our mass murderer. Super sleuth Maguire. The copper with the mostest. The most beautiful and charming wife included. Right Detective Maguire? You have the most beautiful wife in the Met don’t you?”
Maguire said hello to John Dunstable and returned his attention to what he was doing before my interruption.
I persisted unwisely. “Oh come now. Don’t be like that. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just the truth. You can’t sue me for telling the truth now can you?” Others might have detected a slurring of my words but to me I was speaking crystal clear English.
Before I could go on John took me firmly by the elbow and shoved me towards the door. “That’s good Zack. Pick on a policeman why don’t you? Very sensible. And find his vulnerable spot, like his wife.” John kept herding me up the stairs and into the street. “Jesus old mate, do you have a death wish. Couldn’t you see he wanted to drop you? Rule one: Leave coppers alone when you’ve been drinking. Rule two: Don’t forget rule one when you’ve been drinking.”
Later I would remember thanking John for stopping me making more of a fool of myself than I already had. But that was about all I recalled of the latter part of that night. He was a pal who had in the nick of time saved my reputation.
Little did I realise how sadly I would remember the parts of that night I could recall and regret the parts I could not.
*
It was the next day Maguire decided for certain that Rocky James was not the serial killer being hunted.
Maguire had gone home with his mind in turmoil. Rocky James had been formally charged and would appear in magistrate’s court the following morning. He was due to face a sample charge relating to the death of Gabriella Harris. Later, it was expected, he would be charged with the unlawful killings of the other women.
When he arrived at his small terrace house in Wimbledon, Maguire fixed himself a Pims and walked out into the rear garden. It was tiny but it was his wife’s passion and the shrubs and other perennials which lined the borders and leant against the timber fences separating them from their neighbours were testament to the hours she spent digging and weeding.
Joan Maguire had never had a garden of her own before she and her husband moved to Wimbledon. As a single girl she had lived in digs off Bayswater Road in South Kensington and in Hampstead Garden Suburb. Her last flat, a small bedsit run by a single women’s association, was in Highbury. All had had communal gardens of varying size and quality yet Joan had never actually had a garden which she considered enough of her own to want to spend time with it, or at least time to model it to her way. The Wimbledon house gave her own garden and in a way she had never felt before in her life it set her free. It was her release, her passion, her obsessive indulgence.
It was also often a sanctuary for Maguire himself. When he came home after a day, or longer, of living with the dregs of society, the little patch behind his house, nursed to perfection by his perfect wife, provided tranquillity for thought and day dreaming which allowed him to retain his sanity.
He carried his cool drink down to the fence absent mindedly examining the deep green foliage interspersed with the occasional splash of colour. He allowed his mind to drift across the events of the last twenty-four hours, almost distractedly analysing, dissecting, evaluating. It was a scanning process he had developed over the years of being a policeman in one of the most demanding cities in the world. Sift and discard. Look at a specimen of information, decide its relevance, and either file it away or toss it out. It was a system which served him well usually. There were occasions when it let him down but not to a significant degree. Most of the time he sifted out the unnecessary and kept a close eye on the necessary. Most of the time he was right in his judgements.
He sensed her presence and then felt his wife’s arms circle him. She squeezed firmly and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Tough?” she enquired.
“Tough,” he responded and turned to brush his own cheek against the top of her head. It felt nice and he could smell a hint of shampoo. They stood together as one for a time and he could hear her even breathing and she measured his heart beat with hers. She loved him dearly and he desired her more than he believed he ever could.
“Any news, developments?” Joan knew from years of experience when to probe, when to put simple uncomplicated questions. Tonight was a time for understanding.
Maguire sighed and sipped from his glass. “We have charged Rocky James. He will appear tomorrow on one count and they will then prepare the others.”
She could read the hidden message. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly. “Tell me what’s wrong lover.”
“Rocky James is not our killer,” he answered simply. He broke away easily from his wife’s grasp and strolled to the corner of the garden. A golden conifer which would soar to thirty feet if it was not pruned back filled the space. He tweaked a small end of a branch and immediately turned to face Joan, somewhat guilty of the act.
“I can’t prove it, I have no evidence to the contrary, I doubt anyone would agree with me,” he said, “but I know he is not guilty of the murder of those girls.”
Joan walked up to him and cupped his face in her hands. “Then go out and prove it my love. To hell with what anyone else thinks. Prove to them that James is not the right man. Go and find the real killer.”