So here he was, motoring towards Micky’s perfect bloody life. He hoped she was enjoying this last evening of peace.
As the shadows lengthened, he made his way through the final gate and drove towards the barn. One of the stable lads came round the end of the block as he approached and flagged him down. ‘Micky asked me to drop off these stud nuts,’ Vance said casually, his accent as upper crust as he could make it. ‘What’s going on? The place is bloody crawling with police.’
‘You know that bloke Vance that’s escaped from prison? Him that’s on the run?’ He sounded Irish, which was perfect. He couldn’t know all the neighbouring landowners the way a local would. ‘He’s Micky’s ex. He’s threatened her with all sorts, apparently.’
Vance gave a low whistle. ‘That’s hard luck. Tough on Micky. And on Betsy too, poor old thing. Anyway, I better stick these in the barn like I said I would.’
The lad frowned. ‘That’s not our usual brand.’
‘I know. I’ve been having awfully good results with them. Real improvements in condition. I said I’d drop them round so she could give them a try.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Promised to do it yesterday, but I’ve been running around like a headless chicken.’ The lad moved to one side and Vance put the bike in gear and moved forward.
The hay barn was an old-fashioned wooden barn that backed on to the stable block. On one side were bales of straw, on the other, sacks and bales of fodder. Vance couldn’t have been less interested. He motored down to the far end of the barn and turned the bike round before he dismounted. He pulled the feed off the bike, then started work.
Vance dragged one of the straw bales closer to the back of the barn so that it acted as a bridge between the wooden wall and the stack of bales. Then he propped it up on the wall so there was a wedge-shaped space underneath. He poured the petrol over the straw, then he packed the empty space with foam chips. Finally, he lit half a dozen cigarettes and stuck them into the foam. If the arsonist he’d cultivated in jail had told him the truth, the foam would smoulder for a while, then the petrol vapours would ignite the straw. The barn was a fire-trap, and the fire would spread into the roof of the stables, bringing the roof down on the terrified horses.
The only downside was that he wouldn’t be around to see it. Hiding in plain sight was a lot harder in rural Herefordshire than it was in a city like Worcester. Vance climbed back on the bike and headed back the way he’d come. This time, nobody stopped him. The stable lad he’d spoken to before actually waved.
People were so easy to fool. The quickness of the hand deceived the eye, every time. He hadn’t lost any of his magic. As Micky was about to find out.
45
Paula was sitting in Stacey’s seat, having been left in nominal charge of the MIT’s computer systems. Stacey had left her with dire injunctions about what not to interfere with. Paula might be willing to chance her arm by going round Carol Jordan, but she knew better than to try the same stunt with Stacey. So three of the six screens were off limits to her. They were processing information constantly but she had no idea what it was about or whether there were any results the team should know. Stacey had assured her that she would monitor the system remotely, which was fine by Paula.
But the remaining screens were her business. The investigation on the ground in Northern Division fed all its data into their computers and that was immediately shared with MIT. Of course, that presumed that Northern were uploading everything that crossed their paths and not making false assumptions about prioritising. She also hoped there weren’t any numpties who thought they could make a name for themselves by hugging their interview product close to their chest so they could pursue their own leads instead of pooling them. Sam had tendencies in that direction, and the last few years had demonstrated that you could only go so far in eliminating the Lone Ranger streak.
So she’d been the one who learned that the fourth victim had been identified. This time, the killer had been a little less thorough in his precautions and he’d ditched the victim’s handbag in a litter bin just round the corner from the body dump. Paula called up the images of the bag, and saw a stained, beaded pouch with a long thin strap. The contents were arranged next to it: a dozen condoms, a purse containing ?77, a lipstick, and a mobile phone. A sad full stop to a life, Paula thought.
The phone was registered to Maria Demchak at an address in the Skenby area. Preliminary inquiries – whatever that meant, Paula thought sceptically – had her down as an illegal from Ukraine, probably trafficked, living in a terraced house with a dozen other young women under the protection of a former professional boxer who was married to an ex-lap dancer who happened to be Russian.
‘This is interesting,’ she said. Kevin Matthews, the only officer remaining in the squad room, came over for a look. ‘This one seems to have had a pimp.’
‘He’s getting bolder,’ Kevin said. ‘His first three were loners. Nobody looking out for them when they were out working. But a pimp keeps an eye on his assets. This bastard thinks he’s invincible. Maybe that’s the way we’ll bring him down.’
‘I hope you’re right. He’s getting careless too. We didn’t find any ID or handbags with the other three. Tony said he might be keeping them as souvenirs.’
‘I tell you, this was a really public way to deliver the fourth victim,’ Kevin said. ‘Every single person who shops in that arcade is going to get the full SP on all the gory details. It’s not just going to be Penny Burgess baying for blood. This is going to go national. No, never mind national. It’s going to go international, like Ipswich a couple of years ago.’ He chuckled. ‘I was on holiday in Spain when that was going on. You should have heard the Spanish newsreaders trying to get their tongues round Ipswich. I tell you, never mind Vance. We’re going to be front and centre all over the world.’
‘The chief’s not going to like that.’
‘She’s not here. She won’t have a say. It’ll be Pete Reekie calling the shots on the press conference for this one, and I don’t think he’ll hold back now. Face it, Paula, we’re going to be under siege from the reptiles of Her Majesty’s press tomorrow. And we have got the square root of fuck all to give them.’
Right on cue, Stacey’s desk phone rang. Both reached for it but Paula was faster. ‘DC McIntyre,’ she said.
‘It’s Stacey.’
‘Hi, Stacey. We’ve got an ID for number four—’
‘I know, I told you I’d monitor the case traffic. I’ve got something for you from the Oklahoma website.’
