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‘Does he ever come here late at night?’ Grinton said. ‘As in … unusually late.’
‘What sort of bullshit questions are these?’ Wayne Devlin demanded, increasingly agitated by the sounds of violent activity upstairs.
Grinton eyed him. ‘The sort that need straight answers, son … else you and your dad are going to find yourselves deeper in it than whale shit.’ He glanced back at Devlin. ‘So … any late-night calls?’
‘Sometimes,’ Devlin admitted.
‘When?’
‘I don’t keep a fucking diary.’
‘Did he ever look flustered?’ Jowitt asked.
‘When didn’t he? He’s on the lam.’
‘How about bloodstained?’ Grinton said.
At first Devlin seemed puzzled, but now, slowly – very slowly – his face lengthened. ‘You’re not … you’re not talking about this Lady Killer business?’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding!’ Wayne Devlin blurted, looking stunned.
‘Interesting thought, Wayne?’ Heck said to him. ‘Is that your bat out there – or Jimmy Hood’s?’
The lad’s mouth dropped open. Suddenly he was less the teen tough-guy and more an alarmed kid. ‘It’s … it’s mine, but that doesn’t mean …’
‘So if we confiscate it for forensic examination and find blood, it’s you we need to come for, not Jimmy?’
‘That won’t work, copper,’ the older Devlin said, though for the first time there was colour in his cheek – it perhaps hadn’t occurred to him that his son might end up carrying the can for something. ‘You’re not scaring us.’
Despite that, the younger Devlin did look scared. ‘You won’t find any blood on it. It’s been under my bed for months. Jimbo never touched it. Dad, tell ’em what they want to fucking know.’
‘Like I said, Jimbo’s only been here a couple of times,’ Devlin drawled. (Still playing it calm, Heck thought.) ‘Never settles down for long.’
‘And it didn’t enter your head that he might be involved in these murders?’ Grinton said.
‘Or are you just in denial?’ Jowitt asked.
‘He was a good mate …’
‘So you are in denial? Can’t see the judge being impressed by that.’
‘It may have occurred to me once or twice,’ Devlin retorted. ‘But you don’t want to believe it of a mate …’
‘Even though he’s done it before?’ Grinton said.
‘Nothing this bad.’
‘Bad enough.’
‘You should get over to his auntie’s!’ Wayne Devlin interjected.
That comment stopped them dead. They gazed at him curiously; he gazed back, flat-eyed, cheeks flaming.
‘What are you talking about?’ Heck asked.
‘He was always ranting about his Auntie Mavis …’
‘Wayne!’ the older Devlin snapped.
‘If Jimbo’s up to something dodgy, Dad, we don’t want any part in it.’
These two are good, Heck thought. These two are really good.
‘Something you want to tell us, Mr Devlin?’ Grinton asked.
Devlin averted his eyes to the floor, teeth bared. He yanked his glasses off and rubbed them vigorously on his stained vest – as though torn with indecision, as though angry at having been put in this position, but not necessarily angry at the police.
‘Wayne may be right,’ he finally said. ‘Perhaps you should get over there. Her name’s Mavis Cutler. Before you ask, I don’t know much else. She’s not his real auntie. Some old bitch who fostered Jimbo when he was a kid. Seventy-odd now, at least. I don’t know what went on – he never said, but I think she gave him a dog’s life.’
So Hood was attacking his wicked auntie every time he attacked one of these other women, Heck reasoned, remembering his basic forensic psychology. It’s a plausible explanation. Although a tad too plausible, of course.
‘And why do we need to get over there quick?’ Jowitt wondered.
Devlin hung his head properly, his shoulders sagging as if he was suddenly glad to get a weight off them. ‘When … when Jimbo first showed up a few months ago, he said he was back in Nottingham to see her. And when he said “see her”, I didn’t get the feeling it was for a family reunion if you know what I mean.’
‘So why’s it taken him this long?’ Jowitt asked.
‘He couldn’t find her at first. I think he may have gone up to Hucknall yesterday, looking. That’s where they lived when he was a kid.’
Cleverer and cleverer, Heck thought. Devlin’s using real events to make it believable.
‘Someone up there probably told him,’ Devlin added.
‘Told him what?’
‘That she lives in Matlock now. I don’t know where exactly.’
Matlock in Derbyshire. Twenty-five miles away.
‘How do you know all this?’ Grinton sounded suspicious.
Devlin shrugged. ‘He rang me today – from a payphone. Said he was leaving town tonight, and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing him again.’
‘And you still didn’t inform us?’ Jowitt’s voice was thick with disgust.
‘I’m informing you now, aren’t I?’
‘It might be too late, you stupid moron!’ Jowitt dashed out into the hall, calling the two uniforms from upstairs.
‘Look, he never specifically said he was going to do that old bird,’ Devlin protested to Grinton. ‘He might not even be going to Matlock. He might be fleeing the fucking country for all I know! This is just guesswork!’
And you can’t be prosecuted for guessing, Heck thought. You’re a cute one.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Mr Devlin,’ Grinton said, indicating to Heck that it was time to leave. ‘Like warning Jimmy we’re coming. Any phone we find on Hood with calls traceable back to you are all we’ll need to nick you as an accomplice.’
Out in the entry passage, Jowitt was already shouting into his radio. ‘I don’t care how indisposed they are – get them to check the voters’ rolls and phone directories. Find every woman in Matlock called Mavis bloody Cutler … over and out!’ He turned to Grinton and Heck. ‘We should lock that bastard Devlin up.’
Grinton shook his head, ignoring the door to 41c as it slammed closed behind them. ‘He might end up witnessing for us. Let’s not chuck away what little leverage we’ve currently got.’
‘What if he absconds?’
‘We’ll sit someone on him.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Heck said. ‘But I won’t be coming over to Matlock with you.’
Grinton looked surprised. ‘All this groundwork and you don’t want to be in on the pinch?’
Heck shrugged. ‘I’ll be honest, sir: good show Devlin put on in there, but I don’t think Hood has any intention of going to Derbyshire. I reckon we’re being sent on a wild goose chase.’
Jowitt looked puzzled. ‘Why would Devlin do that?’
‘It’s a hunch, sir, but it’s got legs. Despite the serious crimes Jimmy Hood was last convicted for, Alan Devlin let him sleep on his couch. Not once, but several times. This guy is not too picky to associate with sex offenders.’
‘Come on, Heck,’ Jowitt said. ‘Devlin’s in enough hot water as it is – he’s not going to aid and abet a multiple killer as well.’
‘He’s in lukewarm water, sir. Apart from assisting an offender, what else has he admitted to? Even if it turns out he’s sending us the wrong way, he’s covered. It’s all “I’m not sure about this, I’m only guessing that” – there aren’t even grounds to charge him with obstructing an enquiry.’
‘We can’t not act on what he’s told us,’ Grinton argued.
‘I agree, sir. But while you’re off to Matlock, I’m going to chase a few leads of my own. If that’s okay?’
‘No problem … just make sure you log them all.’
While Grinton arranged for a couple of his plain-clothes officers to maintain covert obs on Lakeside View, the rest of them returned to their vehicles and mounted up for a rapid ride over to the next county. Jowitt was back on the blower again, putting Derbyshire Comms in the picture as he jumped into his car. Heck remained on the pavement while he too made a quick call – in his case it was to the DIU at St Ann’s Central. As intelligence offices went, this one was pretty efficient.
‘Heck?’ came the hearty voice of PC Marge Propper, a chunky uniformed lass whose fast, accurate research capabilities had already proved invaluable to the Lady Killer Taskforce.
‘Marge – am I right in thinking that, apart from Alan Devlin, Jimmy Hood has no other known associates in the inner Nottingham area?’
‘Correct.’
‘Okay … I want to try something different. Can you contact Roundhall Prison in Coventry? Find out who’s been visiting Hood this last year and a half. Any regular names that haven’t already cropped up in this enquiry, I’d like to know about them.’
‘Wilco, Heck – might take a few minutes to get a response at this hour.’
‘No worries. Call me back when you can.’
He paused before climbing into his Peugeot. The other mobile units had driven away, leaving a dull, dead silence in their wake. The surrounding buildings were little more than blurred, angular outlines, broken by the odd faint square of window-light, most of which leached into the gloom without making any impression. The passage leading towards Lakeside View was a black rectangle, which bade no one re-enter it.
Heck climbed into his car and switched the engine on.
It was impossible to say whether or not they were on the right track, but it felt right. He still didn’t trust Alan Devlin, but the guy’s partial admissions had revealed that Jimmy Hood had been in this district as well as Hucknall – which put Hood close to all the identified murder scenes and in roughly the right timeframe. Of course, with the knowledge of hindsight, it was all so predictable and sordid. As Heck drove out of the cul-de-sac it struck him that this decayed environment, with its broken glass and graffiti-covered maze of soulless brick alleys, seemed painfully familiar. So many of his cases had brought him to blighted places like this.
His phone rang and he slammed it to his ear. ‘Yeah, Heckenburg!’
‘We could have something here, Heck,’ Marge Propper said. ‘In his last year at Roundhall, Jimmy Hood was visited nine times by a certain Sian Collier.’
‘That name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘No; she hasn’t been on our radar up to now, though she’s got minor form for possession and shoplifting. She’s white, thirty-two years old and a local by birth. Her last conviction was over five years ago, so she may have cleaned up her act.’
‘Apart from the bit where she gets mixed up with sex killers?’
‘Yeah …’
Heck fiddled with his sat nav. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Mountjoy Height, number eighteen – that’s in Bulwell.’
‘I know it.’
‘Heck, if you’re going over there, you might want to speak to Division first. It’s a lively place.’
‘Thanks for the warning, Marge. But I’m only spying out the land. Anyway, I’ve got my radio.’
The murkiness of the winter night was now to Heck’s advantage – mainly because it meant the roads were empty of traffic, but also because, once he arrived in Bulwell, he was able to cruise its foggy, run-down streets without attracting attention.
When he finally located Mountjoy Height, it was a row of pebble-dashed two-storey maisonettes on raised ground overlooking yet another labyrinthine housing estate. First, he made a drive-by at the front, seeing patches of muddy grass serving as communal front gardens, with wheelie bins dotted across them and rubbish strewn haphazardly. There were only a couple of other vehicles present, but lights were on in most of the maisonette windows. After that, he explored at the rear, working his way down into a lower, winding alley, which ran past several garages. Some of these stood open, some closed. The garage to number eighteen didn’t have a door attached, but was of particular interest because a large, good-looking motorcycle was parked inside it.
Heck glided to a halt and turned his engine off.
He climbed out, listening carefully; somewhere close by voices bickered. They were muffled and indistinct, but it sounded like a couple of adults; he wasn’t initially sure where it was coming from – possibly number eighteen itself, which towered behind the garage in the gloom and was accessible by a narrow flight of steps.
He assessed the motorbike through the entrance, and despite the darkness was able to identify it as a new model Suzuki GSX; an expensive make for this neck of the woods.
‘DS Heckenburg to Charlie Six,’ he said into his radio. ‘PNC check, please?’
‘DS Heckenburg?’ came the crackly response.
‘Anything on a black Suzuki GSX motorcycle, index Juliet-Zulu-seven-three-Bravo-Foxtrot-Alpha, over?’
‘Stand by.’
Heck moved to the side of the garage and glanced up the steps. The monolithic structure overhead was wreathed in vapour, but lights still burned inside it and the argument raged on; in fact it sounded as if it had intensified. Glass shattered, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing – it might grant him the right to force entry.
‘DS Heckenburg from PNC?’
‘Go ahead.’
