CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The group of officers seated in front of him were a mixture of grave attention or apparently distracted conversation. But no-one was distracted. Even those talking among themselves were discussing the case. There was serious concern in the minds of everyone present.
Superintendent Ford rapped his knuckles on the table. The chattering stopped. Everyone in the room faced him expectantly.
“Right,” he called. “Right. Let’s have it then.”
He had everyone’s undivided attention.
“I have only a few salient points to make,” he said. “They are few but they are absolutely crucial. Make no mistake. We are at a crossroads with this case. A crossroads.”
He shuffled a few pages of paper on the desk and then looked up again and scanned his audience.
“One. I stand to be corrected but I believe we have no new information or evidence that might lead to our man. Two. No matter how much groundwork we have all undertaken we are no further forward than we were the last time around. Three. The press is all over this. Four. The government is making waves. Five. Politicians from all parties are beginning to gang up getting ready to bite the heads off each and every one of us. Six. There is a suggestion that someone from inside this building, if not this team, might be fraternising to some extent with the media, passing on information that is to say the least unhelpful. Seven. Having said that, today we will be issuing a press release to the effect that Rocky James is not to be charged with these additional murders.”
At this juncture he stopped. There was murmuring in the room but nothing more than a slight disruption to the equilibrium. Clearly he had everyone’s attention.
“So,” he continued. “That dead end alley is coming into view. Even if it is not in view already. If we do not get somewhere or something significant soon we can expect serious flak. And that is not to even contemplate the dreadful scenario of more deaths. There is no priority here except the apprehension of the person, or persons, responsible for the crimes. Do we understand? Does everyone in this room understand what I am saying? That right now this is the most serious priority in our lives?”
There was no need for a loud uniform crescendo of agreement. Every single officer in the room knew precisely what Superintendent Ford was spelling out. Lack of positive action would result in heaps of vitriol being poured on the police. But far more importantly the danger of yet another body being discovered was to be avoided, prevented, no matter what. In other words, the culprit had to be identified, apprehended, taken into custody, removed from the streets, and locked away for all eternity. At least, all his or her eternity.
“I want this individual caught,” said Superintendent Ford. “And I want him caught before he kills again.”
Then just before he dismissed his charges to the streets, to their informants, to wherever they considered their next moves should be directed, he called out: “The press is all over this. They are all over us. Stay away from them. I don’t want to hear of a single officer saying a single word to a single reporter. Right?”
The assembly filed out of the room without answering.
Within hours of the police assembly breaking up online media outlets began announcing that Rocky James was not being charged as the serial killer. He faced a single murder but it was not connected to the four attributed to the so-called monster. That killer was still loose on the streets.
*
The memory of the street riots was still fresh in most people’s minds, heightened by recent exposure on television of the Pride of Britain Awards.
What was described as one of the most powerful moments of the emotion-charged evening was the appearance of a grieving father on stage just weeks after losing his son. Millions of viewers watched him receive a standing ovation as he was recognised for a universally praised dignified plea for peace he made while standing in the street soon after his son, and two of his friends, were mown down by hooligans in a car in the midst of the riots.
The three friends were run over and killed as they tried to protect homes and businesses in their community from violent looters. The father found his son lying in a pool of blood, and tried in vain to save his life performing CPR until paramedics arrived. But it was what he did next that won the admiration of the entire nation.
With police braced for an explosion of violence and revenge attacks he made a powerful speech outside his home calling for peace within the shattered community. It was accepted by everyone across the board that this alone went a long way to stemming the street violence and bringing to an end the looting and arson that had shamed the country.
The awards ceremony widely broadcast on television was the first public appearance the father had made since burying the 21-year-old and he reduced the audience to tears with a heartfelt speech as he collected his special recognition award. Afterwards in a moving interview with a tabloid newspaper the father told how the grief had been so raw that he was not sure he could receive the honour for which he had been nominated. But he was persuaded to take part by the love and support of his wife and encouragement from the family of the two other young men who died alongside his boy.
It was hoped that sanity had returned to the streets of the capital and that community response to similar upheavals would be sensibly controlled.
*
Police Constables Ross Smithson and Nicholas Clarke drew up in their patrol car outside the large brick house in Rokeby Road.
“Nice area,” remarked Clarke as they walked up to the front door and pressed the bell. “Cost a pretty penny to buy around here I bet.”
When there was no response Smithson pressed the bell a second time. “Bloody big houses in this street. Must be three or maybe even four flats in this one.”
They saw a shape through the diamond shaped frosted glass window in the door and then it opened inwards. Standing in the opening was a small frail looking man with thin wispy white hair, dressed in a grey tracksuit that had clearly seen better days.
“Oh hello,” said Barry Flanagan. “Come in. come in.” He almost pulled Smithson in followed by Clarke and loudly closed the door behind them.
“Sorry for making you wait,” said Flanagan. “I was upstairs. I don’t find it that easy to rush downstairs. A bit of a chore for me actually. I only go up to sleep really. But I was sorting some papers in my desk in the bedroom when I heard the bell.”
They were standing in a hallway that led to a kitchen in the rear of the building where a stove and sink could be seen facing out onto the back garden. To the left was a doorway and to the right another doorway.
“Come in here,” said Flanagan and led the way into a large sitting room on the left.
The room, like Flanagan’s tracksuit, had seen better days. It was mostly neat and tidy but it looked tired, as though it had been lived in and cosmetically untouched for years which was the case. In the corner was a high free standing frame of shelves with books and ornaments and various odds and ends placed in a disorderly fashion. There was a chest of draws next to it. Along one wall was an old sandy coloured sofa with cushions with frayed edges and in the remaining open space two chairs that completed the seating arrangements. Along the other wall facing the sofa was a television set on a stand. A large oak coffee table was in the middle of the room, standing on a dark brown and yellow and rust coloured rug.
“Sit, sit,” Flanagan instructed. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or something else?”
“Nothing thanks,” answered Clarke. “You are Barry Flanagan?”
“Yes, yes. Oh yes, I called the police.”
Clarke sat in one of the single chairs to the right of Flanagan who sat perched on the edge of the sofa. Smithson took the other chair.
“Mr Flanagan,” began Clarke, “you reported that you heard screams coming from somewhere nearby. Is that correct?”
“Yes, yes,” said Flanagan. “I was in here watching Neighbours when I heard it. At first I thought it was the TV but of course it wasn’t because Ned and Libby were having a quiet head to head at the time so the noise must have come from somewhere esle.
“Who are Ned and Libby?” asked Smithson.
“Ned and Libby are two of my favourite characters. They’re really nice.”
“Ah,” said Clarke. “So they’re from the television programme and not someone who lives here.”
“No, no, no,” laughed Flanagan. “I live here by myself. They’re in Neighbours. It’s one of my favourite shows. I wish I could visit Australia but of course I am not quite up to such a long journey. That’s why I spend most of my time down here and not upstairs.”
“Right,” said Clarke. “Now this scream you heard. Tell us about that. Where did it come from?”
Flanagan’s expression changed as he thought hard. “Well,” he said, “I was in here when I heard it so it must have come from somewhere pretty close. Maybe outside in the street, or next door. I’m not really sure.”
“But you are certain it was a scream. By a woman?”
“I think so. I mean, I was concentrating on Ned and Libby you understand when I first heard it. But then when I heard it again I knew it was something out of the ordinary, if you know what I mean. This is a quiet neighbourhood.”
Smithson got up from his chair and looked out through the windows at the front of the house. “Did you look through this window into the street Mr Flanagan?”
“No,” Flanagan replied. “I turned my head to listen and then again when I heard it a third time. That’s when I went into the hall and called you. Not you, but 999.”
Clarke was making a few notes. “Mr Flanagan, you live alone in this house do you? Nobody else lives here?”
“Just me,” Flanagan answered. “Just me and Mr Bartholemew.”
“Bartholemew?” enquired Clarke. “Who is Mr Bartholemew?”
“He has the flat in the other part of the house. The house is divided up into two. Rather odd actually. I have this side here and the upper floors, and he has the other side downstairs. More of a bedsit really.”
“So Mr Bartholemew lives by himself then?”
“Oh yes. Completely. He keeps very much to himself. I have never seen anyone come and go to be frank. He’s a very quiet tenant. Makes no trouble at all.”
“Could the sound, the scream, have come from his flat?” asked Smithson. He crossed the room from the window where he was standing and stood in the doorway to the hall. “Is his flat through that door on the other side there?”
“No,” said Flanagan. “Well, not any more. It used to lead into the rooms there but a long time ago it was sealed and a separate independent entrance to the flat was built around the corner outside.”
Smithson walked into the hall and looked up and down and then came back into the sitting room. “So you don’t think it came from in there then?”
Flanagan said he was not sure, not absolutely sure, but doubted it because he never heard any noises coming from the flat next door. And anyway his neighbour never seemed to have company of any sort so he could not see that the scream, if that was what it was, came through the wall into the hall and then into the sitting room where he was watching television. And, Flanagan added, he never even heard the television or knew if Bartholemew even owned one.
“Well,” said Constable Clarke, “if it didn’t come from next door, and you didn’t notice anything unusual in the street outside, where might it have come from? Or are you even sure you heard a scream?”
Flanagan stood up a little shakily. “I was sure I heard something, something that sounded like a scream. I would not have dialled the police if I didn’t. I just can’t imagine now where it might have come from. I’m confused.”
“Alright,” said Clarke. “Sit down. Don’t fret. We often get this sort of call. From people who are convinced they have heard something when in fact when all is said and done it’s probably a couple of cats meowing and having a bit of a spat in the bushes.” He closed his notebook and put it in his breast pocket. “We’ll go next door and have a chat with this Mr Bartholemew and see if he can shed any light on it. Maybe he heard it and can pinpoint where it came from.”
Flanagan showed them to the door and while Constable Smithson returned to the police car Constable Clarke walked around the side of the house, motioning to his partner to remain where he was until he called him if needed. He disappeared from sight but after only a few minutes he emerged, walked to the car with a glance over his shoulder in the direction from which he had just come, opened the door to the passenger side and eased himself in.
“Well?” asked Smithson.
Clarke shook his head. “Nobody there. He’s not in. The flat’s in complete darkness as far as I could see. Radio it in and maybe we can make a run past again later.” He fastened his seat belt. “Nice houses around here though.”
“Odd sort of fellow that Flanagan I thought,” said Smithson. “Retired civil servant is my guess. Loves to repeat words. Come in come in. Sit sit. That sort of thing.”
As they drove away Barry Flanagan was already back in his sitting room with the television switched on. He had nothing specific to watch but he welcomed the sound of voices that helped ease his sense of loneliness.
*
My column was not an easy one to write. I had a very slippery path to tread.
On the one hand I had to be constructive and balanced. On the other there was a message I had to convey, not just to my paper’s regular readers but also to a specific target. I was struggling to find the words that would meet both objectives.
So I recalled the advice given to me by my first news editor when I was a novice cadet journalist on a provincial daily newspaper. The hardest thing to do often is to know how to start writing a story. His advice, very simply, was to write the first word. Type the he said. That will help. It might not be the best way to begin but if nothing else it made you think of what to say after that. You could always go back, he said, and revise the sentence later on. But to get the brain functioning, to get the journalistic juices flowing, to force yourself to think where you should be heading, that very first word can be the ignition that starts the engine. So that’s what I did. I hit the keyboard T-h-e.
The police have now admitted they never had the person responsible for the series of vicious murders that have been committed over past months in custody.
Indeed, reading between the lines of their public statements and relying further on what this columnist believes to be reliable information it is doubtful the police ever really thought they had the culprit in their grasp.
To the contrary, they knew then, and they now know, that the serial killer is still free.
I took a breath. I needed to think about where I was going with this.
The police, and it has to be said the entire administration, have a serious problem.
How public do they go with releasing information that they either have – and that is extremely sketchy at this time – or that they hope someone else will be able to provide?
Honesty and openness could very well lead to panic in the community.
It could be panic on a scale seldom before seen in the capital.
And there is an additional dimension to this case that goes further than solving a major crime and making the streets safe for women to walk down again.
There is the international view of London.
We have always lived in one of the most secure metropolitan cities in the world. Our reputation for safety has been the envy of most other capitals.
If this reputation was damaged at any time it would be a dreadful position.
To face such a problem in the run-up to the Olympics, with just months to go before millions of people from around the world make plans to come to London the reputation for security, as a city where people, especially women, can walk our streets confident of their safety, is paramount.
Yet what do we face?
Another deep breath. How strong could I be? Should I be? Here I recognised that if I was not careful I could be a catalyst for panic.
We have a situation where at least four women have been murdered and their bodies simply dumped.
We have a police force struggling to get to grips with the case to such an extent that they have absolutely no idea who is responsible, or why.
We have a “monster” loose on our streets.
These are problems of mammoth proportions, problems that face not just the police and the government as a whole, but every one of us.
Here I stopped again. It was hard hitting, perhaps too hard hitting. But I truly believed what I had written. And I was nearing the end of my six hundred word piece. However that was not the reason I stopped typing.
I had another problem too. Maybe it was not a problem yet but it was becoming one. I recognised it, knew if I did not do something to correct it, that it would overwhelm me to such an extent that my work and my life would be compromised and other people might get hurt. It was something I had never experienced before and so was unsure just how to deal with it, how to conquer it and eliminate the potential dangers it posed.
I could not stop thinking about Joan Maguire.
She was not in my mind every minute of the day. More dangerously she popped in unexpectedly and lingered far longer than I should allow. It was like I was a teenager with a crush on a girl my own age. I kept seeing her face. Her hair blew in the wind. Her voice rang lightly in my ears. I was being stupid. I knew it. I knew there was no reason for my fantasising and that the fantasies that appeared in my head were clones of commercials on television advertising shampoos with alluring soundtracks. I was being utterly foolish but the images kept repeating themselves at inconvenient times.
Here I was in a serious liaison with her husband, the intention being to try to do something that would help bring an end to a string of terrible murders involving women across the city, while at the same time I was having thoughts about his wife who had no interest in me and whom I had met barely more than a handful of times, each of those occasions being nothing other than social and in the company of others. Including Maguire himself.
This was one such intrusive instance. Here I was in the middle of a column that I hoped would serve a useful purpose, maybe actually help prevent another person being hurt or even killed and Joan Maguire had appeared before my mind’s eye again.
Quickly I got up out of the chair and strode into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door. A cold can of Fosters lager was standing on a shelf and I grabbed it eagerly, ripped open the metal tab and gulped half the contents in a single swallow.
“Fuck,” I said. Then louder: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Downing the remainder of the beer without taking another breath I dropped the can in the waste bin and sat down again at the computer. I was determined not to lose concentration, not to be drawn down into a place where there was only peril, where dangerous demons lurked.
And so to the concluding summation.
The authorities should remember that protecting their own skin is something the community generally believes – often for the wrong reasons – to be their primary concern.
So proof to the contrary is essential.
The public should remember that the law enforcement bodies have a particularly difficult job to do at the best of times.
So understanding is needed.
When a major crime has been committed by someone who leaves no clues and who is undoubtedly unbalanced the police have a monumental task on their hands.
Such is the case they now face.
Having said that it must also be accepted that the person or persons responsible for this dreadful series of murders is clearly of unsound mind and a miserable failure in life. Psychologists and experienced profilers would have no hesitation in describing such people as psychopaths who probably consider themselves to be intelligent but who in fact are not clever but merely lucky, bed-wetters, failed lovers, insecure, and possibly physically disfigured and unattractive to the opposite sex.
In other words very sad individuals.
But not sad enough to merit sympathy.
Indeed not sad enough to warrant anything other than contempt.
This columnist hopes the police find this person soon and show him to be exactly all of those things.