He’d walked into the caravan in Heckley market place, large as life, and donated six hairs and his name and address. Science did the rest. An arcane test, discovered by a professor at Leicester university as recently as 1984, reduced the DNA in Gelder’s hair roots to a pattern of parallel lines on a piece of film that exactly matched the lines produced from the semen left on Marie-Claire’s thighs. It was his, as sure as hedgehogs haven’t grasped the Green Cross Code. It made the local news on Thursday evening and the nationals the next day. The people of the East Pennine division probably slept a little more contentedly in their beds, that weekend, knowing that a sex killer was safely behind bars.
“That was quick,” I said, when I spoke to Superintendent Isles on the telephone.
“I think he wanted catching,” he admitted. “He was hanging around as they set-up the caravan. He went for a burger then came back and made a donation. Wanted to know what it was all about. It was only about the fifteenth they’d taken at that point.”
Sometimes they do it to taunt the police, or to make the stakes higher. Ted Bundy killed more than thirty women across the USA. He moved to Florida because they had the death penalty. Trying to figure out why is like asking why a flock of birds turned left at that particular place in the sky, and not right. Nobody knows. Maybe tomorrow they’ll go straight ahead. We do tests to see if these people are sane: ask them questions; show them pictures; gauge their reactions. A man kills thirty women and they show him inkblots to decide if he’s sane. Someone needs their head examining.
“So he’s coughing, is he?” I asked.
“Oh no, he’s not making it that easy for us,” Les replied. “Say’s he didn’t do it; was nowhere near where she lived and has never been there.”
“Alibi?”
“Watching videos. He’s classic material, Charlie, believe me. We’re waiting for the lab to do another test, the full DNA fingerprint job, but I haven’t cancelled my holiday.”
“I’d like a word with him, Les,” I said.
“I thought you might. Why?”
“To see if there’s anything to be learned about the way we handled the Margaret Silkstone case.”
“You mean, is this a copycat?”
“Something like that.”
“Has young Newley been talking to you? If he has, I’ll have his bollocks for a door knocker.”
“So when can I see him?” I asked. Not: “Can I see him?” but: “When can I see him?” It’s what salesmen call closing. When I went to that sales conference I’d really listened.
“Give us two or three days for the reports,” Les said, “then you can have a go at him.”
“Thanks. And he’s called Gelder?”
“That’s right. Jason Lee Gelder.”
“In olden times a gelder was a person who earned a living by cutting horse’s testicles off,” I told him.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a pity someone didn’t cut his off.”
If you really want to ingratiate yourself with someone, you let them get the punch line in. I put the phone down and wondered what to have for tea.
The Regional Crime Squad paid renewed interest in the tapes Bentley prison had recorded of the conversations that led, we believed, to Chilcott being hired. Someone was willing to pay?50,000 to have me bumped off and they wanted to know who. We had the name of the people on both ends of the line, but it wasn’t a big help. They were real nasties: professionals who’d tell you less than the Chancellor does on the eve of the budget. Except they’d do it belligerently, in language politicians only use when it slips out.
I had a passing interest myself in who was behind it all, so I made my own enquiries. I started by telephoning Gwen Rhodes, Governor of HMP Bentley. It took me all day to track her down, but she was duly shocked when she learned what it was about, and gave me the freedom of her computer terminal, plus a crash course in using it.
On the morning I was there they turned the key on eight hundred and two inmates. That’s screw-speak for the number of prisoners they had. In addition, a further one hundred and sixty-eight had passed through in the period I was interested in. Some had been released, some moved to less secure units, one or two possibly found not guilty. I printed out lists of their names and highlighted the ones that I thought I knew. One in particular leapt straight off the page at me.
“When you had Tony Silkstone,” I began, on one of the occasions when Gwen came back into the office, “I don’t suppose he could have had any contact with Paul Mann, could he?” It was Mann’s phone calls that started the whole thing.
“Not at all,” Gwen assured me. “Silkstone was on remand, Mann in A-wing, and never the twain shall meet. However,” she continued, “you know how it is in places like this. Jungle drums, telepathy, call it what you will, but word gets around.”
“Who would Silkstone meet during association?”
“Fellow remandees. That’s all.”
“What about the rehabilitation classes that Silkstone took? Who might he meet there?”
“Ah,” she sighed, and I swear she blushed slightly.
“Go on,” I said.
“Mainly cat C, with a few cat B. The ones making good progress, who we felt would benefit.”
“Is there always a warder present?”
“Yes. Always.”
“But he might have the opportunity to talk with them.”
“I doubt it, Charlie, but what might happen is this: he discusses his case with a fellow remandee, one who is about to go for trial and knows he’ll be coming back. He leaves D-wing in the morning to go to court, but has a good idea that he’ll be back in A- or B-wing by the evening. He could offer to have a word with someone he knows in there.”
I said: “Not to put too fine a point on it, Gwen, the system’s leaky.”
“Leaky!” she snorted. “Of course it’s leaky. We can’t prevent them from talking amongst themselves. What sort of a place do you think this is?”
“It wasn’t meant to be a criticism,” I replied.
I’d underlined four names, and we printed hard copies of their notes. Gwen showed me another file which showed who Silkstone had shared a cell with, and I printed their names and files, too.
Two of them were still there. Gwen used her authority and they both found they had a surprise visitor that afternoon. It cost me the price of four teas and four KitKats from the WVS stall to learn that Silkstone was a twat who never stopped complaining. He’d “done over” a nonce, they said, and that made him all right, but half the time they hadn’t known what he was talking about. He had big ideas and never stopped bragging about what he’d do when he was freed. They were both looking at a long time inside, and soon tired of him. I thanked Gwen for her assistance and went home.
One of the other names was Vince Halliwell, who I’d put in the dock eight years ago. According to Gwen’s computer he’d attended the same rehabilitation classes as Silkstone and had recently been transferred to Eboracum open prison, near York. He was nearing the end of his sentence, and considered a low risk, even though he was doing time for aggravated burglary. Halliwell was a hard case, but I remembered that there was something about him that I’d almost admired. He was tall, with wide bony shoulders and high cheeks, and blond hair swept back into a ponytail. I think it was the ponytail I envied. He had problems. All his life he’d lived in some sort of institution, and he had a record of binge drinking, paid for by thieving. The aggravated burglary — armed with a weapon — that we did him for was an escalation in his MO.
At first I hadn’t considered talking to him, but that evening I started to change my mind. He’d refused to cooperate when he was arrested, but became garrulous when interviewed for psychiatric, social enquiry and pre- sentencing reports. They made sad reading, and he had a chip the size and shape of a policeman on his shoulder. It was hard to blame him. I rang Gwen at home and asked her to oil the wheels for me at HMP Eboracum. Next morning she rang me and said the Governor there was willing to play ball.
It was the probation officer I spoke to. She wasn’t too keen on the idea, but the Governor was the boss…I assured her that Halliwell was a model prisoner, unlikely to blot his record at this late stage in his sentence, and I’d take responsibility if it all went pear-shaped. We settled for Friday morning.
