CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tony Lawrence’s efforts to garner support for his EDM had had mixed results.
Of course he had no trouble getting the initial supporters to sign on but attracting the favourable attention of many more MPs was proving difficult. So far only fifteen from the three major parties had added their signatures, and that was in real terms meaningless. If he was to succeed in drawing the level of attention he sought to the matter of a serial killer being on the loose he would require serious multiples of that number.
As he put it to me when he called me a second time: “We are going to need a shed load of support to just get this off the ground.”
“You presumably knew that when you started things,” I said.
“Absolutely,” said Lawrence. “EDMs are not really designed to work to the point of being debated in the House. They are used as a tactic to raise awareness. And if they do then the issue is talked about in the corridors and at meetings. More importantly the press gallery notices it and they start asking questions and that leads to more exposure which in turn sometimes leads to positive action being taken by those responsible for doing something about the matter.”
“You mean the government.”
“Normally, yes. But in this case the responsible people are the police.”
“That’s what I understood your intention was,” I said. “But I’m still not clear on exactly what you hope the police will be able to do that they’re not already doing.”
“There is always more the police can do,” said Lawrence. “Look, four women have been murdered. No-one has been arrested. Well, one person was arrested but the police knew all along that he was not the guilty man. And that’s the sort of thing that I don’t want to happen again. Everything has to be straight up and down. The police have to increase their efforts and not put out false or misleading information to the public, information that gives people a false sense of security. Because a false sense of security in situations such as this could be disastrous.”
“OK,” I said. “So I hope I made that pretty clear in my last column. But what more can I do? I can’t keep writing that. My editors won’t wear it and anyway it’s just poor journalism to simply keep banging away at something without offering something new and pertinent to the argument.”
“You’re correct of course,” Lawrence said. “I understand that completely.”
“Well?”
There was a silence on the line for a while and then he said: “Look Zack, for now we just stay calm. I take your point. You are absolutely right. So I think it is now down to me to try to raise the heat from my side. I have to get more colleagues on side with this EDM. And I need to speak up at any opportunity in the House or in its precincts. If I can do that over the next few days we might then be in a position to work with more ammunition.” He paused again. “Do you agree?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I can’t see what else we can do at this stage.”
“Right,” Lawrence said. “We’ll leave it there. Let’s just hope the police do make a genuine arrest and that this maniac is put behind bars as speedily as possible.”
*
Detective David Maguire was of a different opinion.
When I spoke to him shortly after my discussion with Tony Lawrence he was dismissive of the MP’s claims. Insinuations he called them.
“Politicians always know best,” he went on. “And they always believe the police do not do their job well enough. As soon as there is a crime of any sort and the public express concern over it not being solved quickly enough, the politicians come out in force and blame the police for failing in their efforts. Not that they know of course anything about what the police have actually been doing. Merely that the crime has not been solved and until it is they themselves might find themselves in the firing line. Buck-passing pricks, the lot of them.”
I had some sympathy for him. There was something to what he said. “So playing devil’s advocate then,” I prompted, “what are you guys doing to catch this serial killer? Are you any closer than you were yesterday or last week? Presumably what I’ve written has not brought in any further useful information. Or has it?”
I could hear Maguire sigh at the other end of the line. “To be frank with you, and this is definitely off the record, we are no closer than we were. We get some weird calls coming into the control room but not a jot of real information.”
“If that’s off the record, is there anything you can tell me that’s on the record, that I might use?” I was after all a reporter and if there was a story to be had then I wanted to have it.
“No. Definitely not. We are not having this conversation.”
“Fair enough. But will you keep me posted on any developments that might come up?”
“Maybe. But I won’t guarantee anything. I’m not the only one working on this you know and all of us who are working it are putting in very long hours and our efforts are being monitored very closely. Very closely, if you take my point.”
That did not surprise me. With such a high profile case I was sure that the highest echelons of the police would want to have detailed running information fed to them.
“By the way,” said Maguire. “You called my home. Why?”
It took me by surprise and I hesitated with my reply. “Oh I just thought there might be something we could discuss that I might use, that sort of thing.”
“Uh huh. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, just on the off chance there might be something.”
“Right,” Maguire said. “Well in future, do not call me at home. I have an office and a mobile and you know where it is and how you can reach me much of the time. So there is no need for you to telephone me at home.”
“Ok,” I replied. “I understand.”
“And I don’t want Joan to be bothered either.”
Again I answered: “Ok, I understand.”
That’s how the conversation finished. Maguire had not been able to offer me any information that was useful either as column material or as a story for the general pages of the paper.
But I did get one clear message from him and that was to stay away from his home and by intimation to stay away from his wife.
*
It was late and he had much to do.
His brain was swirling with thoughts, the vast majority of them negative.
His repeated failures were a cause for extreme worry.
They left him with a migraine that was exploding in his head and causing his heart rate to reach a level that would worry any doctor.
Whereas he was normally in full control of his emotions and actions he was now fumbling with indecision, deciding one moment on one course of action only to switch to another almost immediately.
He was unsure of himself.
He was beginning to worry more than he had for a long time.
And just the possibility of panic made him fear more failures.
And that was something he would not tolerate.
Further failures was something he was beginning to think he would be unable to bear.
This last one had died.
She had bled out despite every effort he had made to stem the flow of blood using towels, pillow slips, his favourite jogging strip.
On top of that he was certain shock had also contributed.
But whatever the reason the result was the same.
She had died.
Here he was now, late at night, once again having to decide what to do with the body that was stuffed in two large black plastic bags in the trunk of his car.
And then he would need another one.
There was no question of ceasing his attempt the achieve perfection.
He would, he must, keep going.