CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Unfortunately memories are often short lived.
Once news broke that a serial killer was still on the loose and that by implication women up and down the country, but particularly in the metropolitan area, were vulnerable and at high risk communities began once more looking to their own safety. Street vigilante groups sprang up as though they had been waiting for a call to action, ready to start patrolling streets wearing shirts emblazoned with names such as Community Force 10 and threatening Kill and be Killed.
It was generally known that the murdered women had been mutilated. The full details of the injuries still had been kept from the public but that knives or other cutting implements had been used was known. And knives were in the news frequently.
Knife crime, serious youth violence and robberies in the capital had risen sharply over the preceding few months especially. Compared with the same period the previous year notifiable knife crime offences of all types rose by just under twenty per cent. In fact there had been over a five month period alone an increase of no fewer than nine hundred offences. At the same time robberies had gone up by around the same amount showing an increase of more than two thousand eight hundred offences. So it was of little surprise that the general public was concerned and that unease was growing. But further information from the Metropolitan Police aggravated the situation.
A report pointed out that knife crimes measured within a specific "violence portfolio" rose by more than fifteen per cent and that serious youth violence went up by more than ten per cent. It was therefore not surprising either that there was a view held by some that the murders might have been committed by a young person, or perhaps even a gang of youths who had decided for some unknown reason to pray on defenceless women. This view though was not supported by most people as gangland murders of this type were certainly not the norm. To the contrary, the police report indicated that the serious youth violence figure was very largely related to robbery and there was no evidence, in the public domain at any rate, that the women’s deaths were the result of robberies gone wrong.
And that meant that the vigilante groups that emerged onto the streets believed they were there to prevent further killings by apprehending the maniac who was still out there. Their intent was to make sure that what failed to happen during the recent riots was not repeated and that community spirit, and community action, would help catch a serial killer. Neighbourhoods would be patrolled, suspicious characters would be stopped and questioned, and potentially dangerous persons would be manhandled and frog-marched to the correct authorities.
*
Garth Hillinder was walking down Kingsland Green just before one o’clock in the morning, heading for Dalston Junction Rail Station. It was cool and he tugged the hood of his windcheater over his head. Kingsland Green is an extension of Boleyn Road and there are few residential homes lining the street. He had only a few minutes to cross into Kingsland High Street and then into Dalston Lane where he would catch his train. At the T junction at the end of Kingsland Green he thought he saw two men standing to the side of the road, which in his mind was a little odd as the area was not one where people would stand around chatting. But he kept walking with his head down and occasionally glancing up to see if the men would be moving off. They did not.
Hillinder decided not to dawdle and began to run quickly in the lane to his left that would take him directly into the wider and lighter Kingsland High Street. What he did not know was that there were another three men, friends of the other two, who had at the same time turned into the lane from the high street. Hillinder stopped dead in his tracks.
From behind him one of the men shouted something that Hillinder did not hear clearly but he certainly was of the opinion that it was a harsh shout and not merely an inquisitive calling. As he looked back over his shoulder, and began to move forward tentatively, one of the other men in front of him called out loudly “We’ve got him this way.” That Hillinder heard very clearly. And it was that that frightened him immensely.
There was another reason Hillinder immediately became frightened. The two men behind him were white. The three men blocking his way ahead were also white. And Garth Hillinder was a young black man. At just twenty-sex years of age he was a computer programmer and he had just left a friend’s house not two hundred meters away. Under his arm was a laptop that belonged to his friend and which Hillinder was taking home to work on to sort out a glitch. When added together these things went very much against the young man’s situation. A young black man, hooded, with a laptop under his arm, late at night in an almost desolate and dark street.
There was an obvious conclusion to be drawn by the five vigilantes who were on patrol that night. One of the two men behind Hillinder and two of those in front of him raised baseball bats and called out to him: “Stop there you black bastard.”
Hillinder did just the opposite. He ran off the lane towards some buildings at the back of a bank that fronted the high street. However unfortunately he ran into a dead end and as soon as he realised his mistake and wheeled about to retrace his steps he came face to face with one of the vigilantes. Without pausing the man struck Hillinder on the shoulder a vicious roundhouse blow with the bat that knocked him sideways. He crashed into a wall and then collapsed to his knees, dropping the laptop and reaching out in front of him. The man brought the bat down hard on the left side of Hillinder’s head and he dropped heavily to the ground. The man stood poised with the bat above his head as the four other men came rushing in to the dead end alley. One of them shouted “Wait” and then pushed forward and bent down and grabbed Hillinder by his collar pulling him forward. Hillinder did not protest. Garth Hillinder was dead.
“Jesus Christ,” said the man and quickly let go of Hillinder. “You’ve killed the fucker. You smashed his fucking head in you moron.”
Clearly none of the men had any intention of standing around. Together they fled and it was not until just after ten o’clock the next morning that the body of Garth Hillinder was discovered by a bank employee when he emerged through the rear door of the bank to put some rubbish in a bin. The police were called and the story broke on the midday radio news. There was no mention of the vigilantes. Simply that a young black man had been found dead and that the police were investigating. Given the young man’s injuries there were suspicious circumstances and investigators were treating it as a suspected homicide case. As there was no obvious link in any way it was not connected to the serial killings. But it had immediately demonstrated the feelings on the street. There was a panic setting in. Streets were unsafe places to walk at night, for male or female. And there were people who were prepared to take the law into their own hands and mete out their own justice. There were vigilantes who were prepared to assume the roles of officers of the law, judge and jury, and in this case that of executioner.
*
It was a stupid thing to do, but I telephoned Joan Maguire.
“Hello,” she said simply when she answered.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Zack.”
“Zack?”
“Zack,” I repeated lamely. “Hi Joan.”
“Well hello Zack. Are you looking for David?”
“Actually…” I began before she added: “He’s not home Zack. He’s at the office and probably won’t be home until pretty late. Or maybe not at all tonight. Dave and his team are very tied up with a few matters.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course. Not to worry then.”
“How are you Zack? What have you been up to? I mean, I read your column but apart from that what’s been happening? Anything come of it?”
I changed the BlackBerry to my other ear. “No. Not yet anyway. Maybe nothing will come of it. A shot in the dark really.”
“Poor choice of words on another occasion perhaps,” said Joan Maguire.
“Oh right. At least I didn’t say stab in the dark.”
Joan Maguire laughed lightly.
There was a lull and I screwed my eyes tightly shut. How stupid can a grown man be? I had not called Maguire’s home to speak with him. Inside I had hoped Joan would answer the call and I would be able to speak with her. To hear her. Such an immature thing to do. And foolish. Very foolish.
“Well Joan, maybe I’ll call Detective Maguire tomorrow. At the office.”
“Right,” she said. “Maybe you can do that. Call Detective Maguire at the office tomorrow.”
As we rang off I was sure I detected a smile from Joan. There are such things as audible smiles. And they are louder when you have been extremely silly. And I had just been extremely silly.
*
Early the next morning, over a light breakfast of toast and coffee, Joan Maguire told her husband about the call the previous night. He had returned home in the early hours of the morning, sleeping in the lounge so as not to wake her, and breakfast was the first opportunity they had had to talk.
“What did he want?” asked Maguire.
“To speak with you apparently,” she said. “Why else would he call here?”
“Maybe he has the hots for you and called to check if I was in. Then he would come around and ravish you before jumping out the window and fleeing home before I came in and discovered what was going on.”
“Sure,” she smiled. “Actually he did. I just thought I wouldn’t let on about that bit.”
Maguire got up and put his plate in the sink before returning to the table and put his arms around the shoulders of his wife. As he leant down to kiss her on the cheek he said: “I’ll be late tonight again. But if I do come home early and find Tighe here I will castrate him and feed him his balls. So be warned wench.”
“Duly warned,” she said.
*
My god, it was going horrible wrong.
Again.
The hand had been bad enough.
Now this.
Such care had been taken.
It was almost too much to bear.
How had the masters achieved their results?
The successes they had?
He was an amateur.
A rank amateur by comparison.
Despite all his efforts, all the attention he had applied to every single aspect, every t crossed and every i dotted, in the end he had failed.
And was failing again.
He held his head in his hands and could barely look at his work.
But look he must.
*
Paula lay silent on the bed.
She had been hallucinating since the previous day’s horror.
Now her torso was almost completely covered in blood.
She was bleeding out at a rate that could not be stemmed.
She could not see it but the blood was burbling out in pumped gushes, running down the trough in her belly and over the sides onto the sheet and the mattress beneath her.
She could not see it because her eyes were closed.
She could not see what was happening because her life was ebbing away and she was already nearing a coma state.
Her left breast sat in the silver dish on the small table by the side of the bed. Her chest where it had been sliced away could not be seen for the pooled blood.
But none of that disturbed Paula.
Soon she would be dead.
*
PC Clarke pressed the doorbell and took a step back.
He looked up and then around towards the rear of the building. When he heard nobody come to the door he stepped forward and again pressed the bell.
And again he stepped back.
The last time he had been here he had been inside the other part of the building chatting with the retired civil servant Barry Flanagan, the man who had reported hearing a scream from somewhere nearby. But by the end of that meeting he was not at all convinced Flanagan had actually heard a scream as he had telephoned into the police.
Yet he had nonetheless decided to return to the address if he was in the area again and to speak with the man Bartholemew who occupied the flat to the right side of the building. And indeed he had been in the Brockley station area no more than an hour before.
As he was about to step up to the door once more and press the bell it suddenly opened. Before him stood a young man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, of fair complexion with light brown wavy hair. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a pink shirt with a maroon V necked sweater over it.
“Is your name Bartholemew?” asked Clarke.
“Yes,” the man answered.
Clarke noted that he was good looking with unmarked forehead, almost perfect eyebrows, with a chiselled nose and chin above and below full lips. A woman’s man.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Clarke, “but I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“What about?” asked Bartholemew. “What is it?”
“Nothing serious. Just routine. Do you mind if we step inside please?”
“No,” Bartholemew said and looked out towards the street before allowing PC Clarke to step past him and straight into what was obviously the lounge of the flat. There was nothing unusual about it. Rather it looked very ordinary with a coffee table in front of a sofa with a standing lamp to the side. The only other furniture in the room was a large bookcase along the opposite wall that was filled with paperback novels ad a few hardback travel books. There were three pot plants on shelves.
“Your name is Bartholemew isn’t it?” asked PC Clarke once more.
“That’s right,” Bartholemew answered. “Alec Bartholemew. Can I help you with something?”
Clarke did not sit on the sofa but remained standing as his host did. “Your neighbour Mr Flanagan reported the night before last hearing someone scream. He thought it might, just might mind you, have come from in here.”
“Someone scream? In here?”
Clarke kept silent.
“I doubt it,” said Bartholemew. “I was here on my own and I certainly did not scream. I was reading quietly all night and went to bed around eleven as usual. And I didn’t hear anyone scream outside either. Maybe Mr Flanagan imagined it.” He paused but went on quickly: “I’m not saying he does imagine things. Just that he might have imagined the scream. If you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Clarke. “Well, you might be right.”
He looked around the room. “How big is your flat? It must be pretty small given that Mr Flanagan lives in the rest of the building as far as I can see.”
“A little bigger than a bedsit,” replied Bartholemew. “I have the lounge here, a small kitchen in the back and to the side there my bedroom with an en suite shower. A res des with an en suite.”
Clarke smiled. “A res des with an en suite. Much in demand. Even small ones.”
“Even small ones,” repeated Bartholemew.
“Right,” said PC Clarke. “Well, I don’t think I need to take up any more of your time. I’m sorry to have bothered you but you will appreciate I’m sure that we have to follow up on all reports of such nature. Got to let the public know we care eh?”
“Of course,” Bartholemew said. “No trouble. If I hear any screaming in future I’ll certainly call the police. But this is a quiet neighbourhood and I don’t recall ever hearing anyone scream before.”
Clarke stepped outside. On the doorstep he again looked up at the building, down the side towards the rear and out towards the street. “Not surprised,” he said. “A nice neighbourhood. Not one for screams.”
He did not extend his hand but thanked Bartholemew for his time and walked out to his parked police car, slid in behind the steering wheel and drove off.
Bartholemew went back inside his flat, closed the door firmly and sat on the sofa apparently deep in thought.