CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The suggestion by the government following the riots that tore streets and communities to pieces to shut down social media were dropped. Instead officials said they would concentrate on building closer co-operation with the intention of cracking down on the networks being used for criminal behaviour. But of course that would pose new problems. The more criminals apprehended, the more crowded the jails would become. And crime in the capital was at a record level.
Already four women had been murdered. The extent of their injuries was still unreported by the media and the public, while growing increasingly uneasy nonetheless, was yet to learn the full extent of the crimes.
Recent statistics showed that in England and Wales there were nearly nine hundred thousand violence against the person crimes. This was equivalent to sixteen per thousand people. Over the same period there were also around fifty thousand sexual offences during the same period which equated to about one per thousand. The statistics that could be applied to the type of crime the present serial killer was committing would be but a handful.
Maguire and Walden and the rest of the Met team working the case knew they were hunting a very special kind of killer. He was a killer who killed to a plan. He was also a killer who killed like no other. He was a torturer, someone who mutilated his victims while they were still alive. And he did so in a way never seen before by Maguire or Walden or anyone else on the team.
I did not have full knowledge of the women’s deaths. Like every other journalist I only knew that there was a serial killer out there who had so far murdered four women and probably had no intention of ending his death spree unless he was caught. I had of course tried to speak with some of the officers working the case only to be met with the briefest of outlines. Where and when. They did not tell me the how or why, and I was not sure they knew. But if they did they were not about to tell me.
I had even tried contacting Detective Maguire but got nowhere with the trained receptionists in New Scotland Yard. I thought because I knew him, by name and face only it had to be said, and perhaps because I had actually met and talked to his wife, he might be receptive to at least take my call. But that was a forlorn hope.
At the same time I was being pressed by my employers both in the UK and abroad to keep the story warm and to provide more intimate details of the murders. To be both that one step ahead of the competition as well as providing detailed, some might say morbid, information to titillate readers. So, putting pen to paper metaphorically, I began a draft article that I thought would hit all the right notes.
The police have absolutely no idea who the serial killer is who has so far murdered four women, dumping their bodies in various parts of the country.
And if those I talk to are to be believed the female population up and down the country will have to live in fear for some considerable time to come.
This was a draft I reminded myself. It was an article that was intended specifically and unabashedly to sensationalise the already tense situation and to try to draw out something from the police that they had so far, presuming they had some additional relevant information, kept from the public. It was a start.
To put things in perspective here is the background:
Victim One was Kay Roberts. She was twenty eight years old and was a London resident from Earlsfield in the south of the capital. She was not murdered in a backstreet or on one of the housing estates in the area that could benefit by modernisation. Around the middle of January she had been at a friend’s house in north London, in leafy Finchley. Some time after leaving her friend’s Kay Roberts on her way home was taken. Her body was found in Mill Hill.
Victim Two was Maxine Hughes. She was aged thirty two and was the mother of an eight-year-old son. She was not a resident of London. Her home was in Hove, Brighton. But her body was found in London. She had travelled to the city for the day back in May. Her body was found just outside Milton Keynes.
Victim Three. Virginia Hughes, twenty-two, whose body was found in Berkley Square. The very heart of London. The month was July. Although she had the same name as the previous victim, police say they were not related.
Victim Four was a Ukrainian mini-cab driver. Grazyna Litanincuk was the oldest victim at thirty-seven. Her body was found well outside the capital in Gerrards Cross. The date was November the second.
These four victims were all killed over a ten month period.
To recap, their bodies were found scattered in different locations: Mill Hill, Milton Keynes, Central London, Gerrards Cross.
They were not all London residents, though Maxine Hughes was it appears in London when she was murdered.
As far as the police apparently know the four victims did not know one another.
In other words, they were random killings.
We do not know all the details of their deaths, but this writer understands it was brutal in each case.
The police have one suspect in custody. The rules of subjudice prevent him being identified but it is understood he has already been charged with one unrelated murder and may soon be charged with these other four.
At least that is what we in the media are being led to believe.
This writer believes this to be a smoke screen of sorts.
That the leaks are in fact unfounded, or at least far from being certain.
That in fact the police are far from being convinced the man in custody is the serial killer.
That the real killer is still out there.
That women up and down the country perhaps, but certainly in London, should be extremely careful of how they travel, especially at night.
That there is still a dangerous mass murderer on the loose.
We should all recall what Home Office Minister Adrian Thomason said publicly on television.
There is a monster out there.
I had no doubt that if my editors accepted my copy and took the chance of publishing it there would be a response from the authorities. The police hierarchy would be on the phone first demanding at least a follow up story, one that appeared on the early news pages as hard news, playing the sensationalism down. Even if my comments were accurate playing them out under the floodlights of the popular press would not be welcome. It never was.
*
Having forwarded the column to my London and overseas papers I decided what I had earned was a drink. The night was young as they say and there were many places to choose from.
I didn’t fancy my local pub, or any pub for that matter. The thought of propping up a bar that was likely to be crowded with people I didn’t know or who I did know and felt compelled to join in conversation that was focused on football or people I was not particularly interested in was unappealing. I wanted a drinking hole with atmosphere, most probably where I knew no-one else, and where if I did find myself in a conversation it would be on a level a little above the rankings in the premier league.
I reckoned I knew just the place. And it was in an area that if it didn’t work out there were plenty of other haunts in the vicinity.
Boisdale bills itself as a lively Scottish restaurant with whisky and cigar bars, live jazz and blues and soul music, and an atmosphere that is unique. There are branches in Belgravia in Central London, Bishopsgate close to the City of London, and Canary Wharf by the river. The ancestry of its name dates back to a small village on the island of South Uist in the Outer Hebrides. There is also Lockboisdale on the island which became a major herring port in the nineteenth century. The island is one of the last surviving strongholds of the Gaelic language in Scotland and the crofting industries of peat cutting and seaweed gathering are still an important part of everyday life. Boisdale restaurant are a far cry from that. It actually promotes itself as being “in a modern world – the very finest from ages past”.
My favourite of the three in the chain was the one in Belgravia. With its blood red frontage it offers everything that I look for in an establishment that places equal emphasis on drink as it does food. It has the eclectic Macdonald bar that is decorated in the style of a gentleman’s club where the music is played. The Back Bar is in the style of a traditional pub bar. Next to it is the Courtyard Garden which is perfect for alfresco dining complete with scented blooms. Upstairs there are the Auld Restaurant and the Jacobite Room both of which are hung with oil paintings and which are ideal for private dinner parties. But the venue I enjoy the most, on occasions when I want something very different, is the Cigar Terrace.
Trademark Boisdale tartan clads the bar which is decked out with sofas and cushions and rugs. Being November with the temperatures fluctuating during the day from under five centigrade to just over ten the outdoor heaters were turned on. Cigar smoke drifted around the ceiling.
Although the terrace can accommodate around three dozen people there were only six when I arrived. Two I didn’t know. Two I did. Detective Maguire and his alluring wife sat against the wall, directly below one of the heaters. Joan Maguire had a cashmere blanket across her knees, one that their host claimed was brought especially from Scotland. I nodded in their direction. Joan Maguire smiled back. Her husband did not.
I chose a small table at the other end of the terrace, my back to them, against the railing where I could look out over the rooftops of the buildings a block and more away. There were a few trees at the back of the building abutting onto the restaurant and I could feel the cool wind rustling its way through the branches. I knew it would be fresh sitting out but I had had enough of the indoors sitting at my computer and welcomed the change. Besides, I had a large glass of Symposeum Rouge, one of the Vin de Pays de l’Aude from France. The light purple red with its fruity tang that was supposed to suggest peaches with a hint of pepper and mint would warm the blood. It was just one of the wine choices on the menu that ran to more than two dozen pages. Had I opted for a whisky I would have had to select from no fewer than thirty-nine. The same menu offered blended whisky, Irish blended whiskey, Irish malt whiskey, Welsh malt whiskey, Japanese malt whiskey, American whiskey, de luxe blended whisky and grain whisky. I noted the different spelling of the spirit that distinguished the true Scottish variety from the Hiberno or Irish type. But spirits were not my drink and I wanted the double glass of wine to sit and cogitate.
I had been doing this for around fifteen minutes when I sensed someone standing behind me and just to the side. I looked up. It was Maguire. Again I nodded to him.
“My wife wants to know if you would like to join us,” he said, with a slight emphasis on my wife and with a brief pause before the wants.
I turned my head to look past him to where Joan Maguire was sitting. She was watching us with a smile. Then she tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows.
“You sure?” I said.
“I asked didn’t I?” said Maguire. “You coming or not?”
When we were seated at the table Joan Maguire raised her glass of what I assumed was whisky and said cheerily: “Nice to see you again Zack.” She smiled across the table at her husband before adding: “Do you come here often?”
“Do you mean what’s a nice guy like me doing in a place like this?” I replied and immediately realised how foolish the attempt at humour sounded.
Neither Joan nor Maguire made a comment so I merely said: “It’s different from the run of the mill pub. I like the atmosphere. And I don’t get caught up in mundane talk with people I would rather not waste my time with.”
Joan Maguire smiled again, this time at me. “So I suppose we should be pleased you chose to join us. Thank you.”
Maguire himself gave a snort and took a large mouthful of his whisky.
What’s the harm I thought. I might as well try to enjoy the encounter despite the obvious distance between myself and Maguire. His wife was trying to be polite, and after all we had got on reasonably well the last time we met at the head wetting of the new child of our mutual friend. The whole reason for getting out of my flat was to relax and wind down.
“Sorry, thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your asking me to join you. Is this a regular haunt of yours?”
“Not really,” she answered. “I had a client visit in Eaton Square and it seemed like a good idea to meet up for a drink. We both like Boisdales, so here we are.”
I was reminded of how I noticed when we first met how her green eyes shone. “How’s the legal world these days? I suppose with the slump in the property market the conveyancing side is a bit slower than normal.”
“It is.” Joan Maguire replied. “But there is always enough to keep one reasonably busy. The property market moves not only in cycles but also according to location. There is still growth and activity in the mid to high range. That’s where my interests are. It’s in the less desirable sectors that the economic slump is most felt.”
“Location, location, location,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
The conversation paused. I took another healthy swig of my wine and she very daintily sipped her whisky. Maguire, who was nursing his drink close to his chest and had seemed interested in anything away from the table while his wife and I exchanged pleasantries, gently placed his tumbler on the glass topped table.
“I’m going to get myself a cigar I think,” he said and stood. “Joan?”
“Why not,” she said. “A small one. Perhaps a Montecristo. A Joyitas.”
Maguire made to leave when Joan touched his arm and looked at me. “Zack, would you like a cigar? I don’t know if you smoke even. Do you?”
I was surprised. Very surprised. “Sometimes,” I said. “And you smoke, cigars I mean?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “It depends on the occasion.”
I glanced up at Maguire who had not moved. “Why not,” I said. “Let me pay you please.”
“Forget it,” Maguire said, and headed indoors without enquiring what brand, strength, length or any other quality might be to my liking.
Joan took another small sip of whisky watching me over the top of her glass. “My husband, David, is a principled man. And a very good police officer. I do want you to know that.”
I shrugged. “I have no reason to doubt that. What makes you think I might have a different view of him?”
“The police are not liked very much today, as you know. It’s been a hard time for them. It’s hard when everyone is being tarred with the same brush.” She stopped and briefly looked into the distance. “I guess it’s not all that dissimilar with journalists these days. You have more in common than you might think perhaps.”
“Just when it comes to bad news?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I hope not.”
Maguire returned with three cigars and two more whiskies and another glass of red which he settled in the middle of the table. He handed me one cigar and lit another and then passed it to his wife. Then he lit his own, blew the smoke towards the ceiling and turned to me. “What are you up to these days?”
I picked up the box of matches that were in the centre of the table and lit my cigar that I noted had the wrap denoting it as an El Rey Del Mundo. I had never heard of the brand but when I drew in the smoke and then let it out I was pleasantly surprised. It was very mellow.
“This is very nice,” I said. “Thank you again.”
“Are you still following the murders Zack?” asked Joan.
“I am. It’s a big story. And readers of my column are demanding I write more about them,” I replied. “That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.”
She laughed.
“Actually the reason I’m here tonight is that I just finished my latest column and decided to treat myself.”
“Oh,” Joan said. “And what did you write?”
Now that was a killer question. Do I avoid answering and appear to be hiding something or being simply rude? Do I offer some inane general comment and again appear to be discourteous? Or do I reveal exactly what I had written about the serial murders? And in doing so invite a reaction I was unsure I wanted.
For the second time in less than an hour I thought, what’s the harm, they’ll read it for themselves tomorrow.
“I pose the question whether the police really have arrested the man responsible for killing those four women.” I kept my eyes on Joan Maguire and avoided looking at Maguire. “Something tells me they might not have. And that means the real killer is still out there.”
“Really,” said Joan Maguire. “And why would you, a journalist and not a policeman, have your doubts?”
“Gut feeling. No facts or anything like that. But it just doesn’t feel right. Why would this guy James carry out four murders, brutal but not wild knockabout murders we are led to believe, and try to conceal the bodies, and then in broad daylight as it were murder his wife in a rage which is more his modus operandi?”
“Modus operandi? You’re beginning to sound like a policeman. And you’ve written this for your next column?”
“Yes. It hopefully will come out in tomorrow’s paper here.”
“You know if you have done that you’re bloody stupid.” Maguire came to life. “You’ll probably start a panic. Every woman in the city will now be scared out of their wits and be afraid to go anywhere on their own. Bloody reporters. God save me from them.”
“Who’s going to save the next young woman who gets killed?” I retorted. “Are you absolutely sure you have the right man? Can you guarantee that? That there will be no more killings?”
“That’s not the point,” Maguire said. “It’s pure sensationalism what you’re doing. If you’re claiming that the serial killer is still out there and that he will probably strike again, something that your millions of readers will read, what do you call it? Responsible journalism? I don’t think so.”
I was not going to back down too easily. “You haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Do you think the man in police custody is the serial killer?”
Maguire shook his head, drew on his cigar, swallowed a mouthful of whisky emptying his glass and said: “I think you should be careful which hornets’ nests you interfere with.”
A silence settled over the table. Maguire had finished his drink and was looking at his wife and I thought his expression suggested it was time they left.
I was therefore taken by surprise when she said: “I think the two of you should stay in touch. Maybe you could both benefit.”
Maguire’s look turned to a frown.
Joan Maguire continued: “Zack, you will know that David cannot give you information that is classified. You have to accept that.” She turned to her husband. “If you had a powerful newspaper that you could use, and I mean use and not abuse, that would presumably be potentially very useful.”
There are times as a journalist when something happens, or when someone says something, that you question its seriousness. Even the absurdity of it. Then almost at once your brain tells you to wait, think again, reconsider, look at it from a different perspective. And that is what happened here.
I looked at Maguire who did not take his eyes from his wife. The frown remained and he stared hard into her eyes. She did not waver but continued to return his gaze. And then she smiled very slightly and once again, just like she had when she looked across the terrace at me when Maguire was inviting me to join them for a drink, she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
Maguire turned and looked at me for a long time. I could feel him trying to look inside me, taking me apart, analysing before making a decision. Then he said: “What could you offer me that would help us solve these crimes with certainty?”
I was stunned. It was the last thing I expected him to say. I was also at a loss as to what precisely I could suggest. Overly used platitudes of a national newspaper having the power to sway public opinion or launch campaigns to try to change laws that are considered obsolete or draconian did not apply in this case. This was about catching a serial killer who I had suggested may well be still on the loose and who the police, at least indirectly, were suggesting was in custody.
In this instance I decided that honesty was the best policy. “I don’t know,” I said simply.