Lancaster slipped off his clothes and into the chilled sleeping bag. He wriggled for a few seconds, getting warm, then reached to the floor, where several bulging files lay. The transcript of Gillian Webster’s conversations with the Minute Man had been typed up. He read through them again. It was one-way traffic. The Minute Man had said only a couple of dozen words, mostly in the form of abrupt questions.
His second victim, Elaine Chatham, had managed a longer utterance from him. She’d asked if she could have a book of crosswords to pass the time. She’d kept on asking until she’d forced from him a gruff confession (in his Geordie accent this time). Three important little words. Tom Lancaster whispered them to himself.
‘ “I hate puzzles”.’
Then, smiling, he reached for the anglepoise and turned off the light.
It was nearly midday when Mrs Angelo heard the bell tinkling at the front desk.
‘Coming!’ she called, trying to sound calm. Her husband Tony should have been helping her, but he had the flu and was upstairs asleep. It was his third bout of flu this year; he never wanted the doctor called in. The man standing at the desk carried a sports holdall and a sheaf of the morning papers. He wore a new-smelling sheepskin jacket and a harassed grin.
‘I’d like a room, please,’ he announced.
‘Just the one night, is it?’
‘Well…’
‘You’re a journalist,’ Mrs Angelo stated. ‘You’re reporting on that kidnapping, and you don’t know how long you’ll need the room. Am I right?’
‘You could write our astrology column.’
She checked the rack of room keys on the wall. ‘Number six has a wash basin, or there’s number eleven, but it doesn’t. Those are the only two I’ve got.’ She turned to him. ‘We’re busy all of a sudden.’
‘You’ve already got reporters staying?’
‘One’s been here all the way through, the others moved in yesterday. And I’ve a very nice cameraman and sound-man from the BBC, only they complain because their reporter is in some posh hotel. I told them, posh just means expensive. Number six or number eleven?’
‘Six, please.’
‘Only the best, eh? I dare say you’re on expenses.’ She unhooked the key, then swivelled the register around for him to sign. ‘So which paper are you from?’
He didn’t look up from his writing. ‘I’m freelance. A few magazines are interested, so I thought I’d… you know.’
She swivelled the register back towards her. ‘Well, Mr Beattie, let’s hope you get your story, eh?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, taking the key from her warm, damp fingers. ‘Let’s hope.’
He threw the papers on to the floor beside the single bed. The mattress was softer than he liked, but the room was clean and fresh. It worried him that there were other reporters here. He didn’t want them asking him questions. He unzipped the holdall, taking his Gillian Webster case notes from it. Included in the file was a packet of black and white photographs he’d taken during the weeks leading up to the snatch. He looked through them again.
The Websters lived in a large detached house set in a few acres of rambling grounds. He’d gone out there one Sunday with his camera. He’d been out that way several times before in his car, stopping once with engine trouble near the house. About a hundred yards from the house there was a clump of bushes and saplings, big enough for him to hide in. On that particular Sunday, he’d taken his very best zoom lenses for the Canon camera. Then he went strolling with camera and binoculars and a bird identification book.
What he hadn’t expected was that Gillian Webster would not be home. He also had not expected the Websters to be entertaining. They’d invited a dozen or so people for late-afternoon drinks. He was lucky the weather was cooclass="underline" nobody seemed inclined to wander down into the garden towards where he was hiding. But a veranda ran the length of the back of the house, and some of the guests wandered out on to it; so, occasionally, did the host and hostess. He shot off a single roll of film, concentrating on Webster and his wife. She was younger than her husband by at least ten years; even so, she was showing her age. The skin sagged from her face and neck, and her short blonde hair looked brittle.
Lying on the bed, he paused at one particular photograph. A man had been standing alone on the veranda, then had been joined by Mrs Webster. It looked as though she were greeting the man. They were kissing. The man, who was holding a champagne flute, held Mrs Webster’s arm with his free hand, drawing her towards him. The kiss was no perfunctory peck. Their lips met, were maybe even parted. The kiss had seemed to last quite a while. He searched through the other photos for a better one of the man. Yes, here he was with Mr Webster and another guest. They looked serious, as though discussing business. The man was caught face-on. He was shorter than Webster, heavily built, with dark wavy hair just covering his ears. Early on in the party, he had loosened his tie and his shirt collar. Did he merely look serious in this photo, or did he look worried? There were dark bags under his eyes…
He lifted a newspaper and stared at the photofit police had issued, the one made up from Gillian Webster’s description. It was the guest from the party. He was sure of that.
The local radio station had set up a van in the police station car park, with a tall antenna flexing from its roof. It looked as though the journalists had been made to move into the car park. Probably their cars had been holding up traffic in Castle Lane. As he arrived, they were milling around, drinking beakers of tea, talking into portable phones, reading from sheets of paper.
He looked around. One young man stood apart from the others. He looked shy and uncomfortable, and was wearing cheap clothes. There were spots around his mouth and on his neck, and he kept pushing slippery glasses back up his nose as he read from his own sheets of paper, glancing up from time to time to see what the other journalists were doing.
He was perfect.
‘Local are you, chief?’
The young man looked up in surprise at the man with the south-east accent, the man wearing the expensive jacket.
‘Sorry?’
‘You look like the local press.’
The young man twitched. ‘I’m from the Post.’
‘Thought so.’ The sheets of paper were plucked from the young man’s hands. They detailed the morning’s media briefing. There would be a conference at three o’clock, and another at seven. Otherwise, the only news was that the man they’d been questioning was to be held for another twenty-four hours.
‘What do you think, chief?’ The young man looked dazed. ‘Come on, you can tell Uncle Des.’
‘There’s not much to think.’
He wrinkled his nose, folding the press release and shoving it into the young man’s anorak pocket. ‘Don’t give me that. That’s the official line, but this is between you and me. You’re local, my son, you’ve got the edge on all of us.’ He nodded towards the scattering of journalists, none of whom was taking any notice of this conversation.
‘Who are you?’
‘I thought I told you, Des Beattie.’
‘Beattie?’
‘How long you been in this game, son?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The Ripper case, I covered it for the Telegraph. Freelance now, of course. I can pick and choose my crime stories. A certain magazine has asked me to see if there’s an angle in all this.’ He looked the young man up and down. ‘You might be in for half the byline. Could be your ticket out of here, chief. We all had to start somewhere.’
‘Stefan’s my name, Stefan Duniec.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Stefan.’ They shook hands. ‘What’s that, Russian is it?’
‘Polish.’
‘Well, I’m Des Beattie and I’m from Walthamstow. Only I live in Docklands now.’ He winked. ‘Handy for the newspaper offices. So what’ve you got?’
‘Well…’ Duniec looked around. ‘It’s not really my idea…’ Beattie shrugged this aside. There was no copyright on news. ‘But I’ve heard that someone’s got a name.’