Claims to have been sleeping rough in London for approx. 3–4 months
Still has contact with girlfriend, Hannah, 13 – resident in Wolverhampton
Admits to a sexual relationship with Hannah
No record of arrests/cautions in the metropolitan area
Admits living from theft and begging but denies prostitution
Recently diagnosed type one diabetic
Russell has no memory of going to the alleyway on the night of Friday, 10 August, but agrees he has been sleeping there from time to time since ‘Chalky’ introduced him to it. He calls ‘Chalky’ Grandpa, but knows nothing about him except that he’s a ‘decent bloke’. He denies owning a canvas duffel bag or seeing one in Chalky’s possession. He also denies knowing a man with a black eyepatch or anyone going by the names of ‘lieutenant’/‘lootenant’ or Charles Acland.
Russell freely admits to the thefts of the mobiles, BlackBerry and iPods, although he is vague about when, where and how he stole them. In 3–4 months, he estimates he’s stolen approx. 15–20 mobiles and says the methods are ‘pretty similar’ so the incidents become ‘blurred’. During the interviews the mobiles were referred to as ‘the Nokia’ and ‘the Samsung’. He says he lifted one of them (he thinks it was the Samsung) from a woman’s open bag while she was paying for a newspaper. He saw her from behind, so the description is of no value – ‘tallish’. He claims he found the other (Atkins’s Nokia) in a small holdall that he stole off a bench seat in Hyde Park while the owner was ‘watching a couple snogging’. Again no useful description except that it was a man – ‘dark hair and dressed in black’. Possibly a suit.
Russell describes the holdall as black and similar to the one cycle couriers use – approx. 40 x 30cm. He ‘ditched’ it in bushes near the Diana Memorial Fountain as soon as he’d searched it and can’t remember what else was in it apart from the mobile, a bottle of aspirin and a pack of sandwiches
– all of which he took. His best recollection on the rest is ‘a newspaper, maybe a brown envelope and some keys’. FYI: A search of the area produced nothing, nor has a bag of that description been handed in by the public or the park ground staff.
Russell is unable to pinpoint when either of these thefts took place, although his best guess is 2–4 weeks ago. His usual MO is to ‘collect’ a handful of items and sell them to a fence in the Canning Town area (he has so far refused to give us a name or address on this), but he denies selling anything during the last month because he’s been feeling too ill to make the trip. He remembers calling his girlfriend on one of the phones (he thinks the Samsung) because it was active when he stole it, but the other was ‘dead’.
Conclusion
I can see no point in diverting resources on a wild-goose chase after a ‘tallish’ woman or a dark-haired man, nor in factoring these descriptions into the inquiry. Russell is an unreliable witness and is quick to agree that it may have been the BlackBerry or one of the iPods that he stole from the handbag and/or the holdall. His descriptions of his other victims are equally vague – he thinks two of the iPod owners were ‘a black guy’ and ‘a kid’.
Through his solicitor, Russell was made aware of the seriousness of the inquiry. Although nervous of being interviewed, Russell maintained an even demeanour throughout the three sessions. Neither DI Nick Beale nor I detected any difference in his reactions when it came to questions about the Nokia. We are of the opinion, therefore, that it is more likely he stole the mobile from Atkins’s killer than from Atkins himself or from Atkins’s house.
I have asked James Steele to consider the implications of this re the psychological profile. Our assumption has been that the mobiles were stolen as trophies and/or because they were the means of communication between killer and victim. In either event, I am unclear why the killer was carrying at least one of them in public. To what end?
Our two most positive lines of inquiry at the moment are Kevin Atkins’s mobile and the attack on Walter Tutting, and I have instructed all efforts to be concentrated in those two areas.
With kind regards,
Detective Superintendent Brian Jones
Sixteen
BEN RUSSELL’S MOTHER looked tired and depressed, as if the strain of the last three days had taken their toll. A small, grey-haired woman, she sat at her son’s bedside, interminably lacing her fingers and pretending not to care that he was only interested in what was playing through the headphones attached to a TV and radio console beside him. In daylight, and conscious, his unsmiling mouth and permanent scowl identified him clearly as the alienated youth he was, and Jackson doubted any joy would come of this mother-and-son reunion.
He was in a side room on his own, segregated from the other patients because of the continued police interest in him, but Jackson had a good look through his open door as she and Trevor Monaghan passed. They came to a halt ten yards down the corridor. ‘How old is the mother?’
‘Sixty-seven,’ murmured Monaghan. ‘Thought she was through the menopause at fifty-two, slept with her old man for the first time in twelve months and ended up pregnant. Poor woman. The husband was dead of lung cancer a year later.’
‘Any other children?’
‘Four . . . all much older than he is. There’s a brother of thirty-eight who has a couple of teenagers of his own. The kid was brought up as an only child – spoilt rotten, as far as I can make out – but wasn’t a particular problem until husband mark two came on the scene. Now the wretched woman’s blaming herself for marrying again. Ben’s been in constant trouble ever since.’
Jackson pulled a wry expression. ‘How many times have I heard that before? It’s the history of every runaway.’
‘Mm. Mrs Sykes wants me to say it was diabetes that sent Ben off the rails.’
‘Instead of what? The stepfather?’
Monaghan shrugged. ‘Take your pick. She blames everything from over-compensation for his father’s death . . . changing her name when she remarried . . . to having to share her time between the son and the new husband. The only thing she’s not prepared to accept is that Ben behaves the way he does because he wants to. She keeps telling me he’s a good boy underneath.’
‘Is he?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. He’s a rude little bugger. Are you sure you want to talk to him?’
Jackson nodded. ‘Preferably alone. Any chance of prising the mother away?’
‘What’s the quid pro quo?’
‘A bottle of Scotch if I get an uninterrupted half-hour with the door closed. I want to know what he’s told the police.’
*
‘Rude little bugger’ was about right, thought Jackson, after the door closed and she was left alone with Ben. He studiously ignored her until she swung the Patientline TV console to one side, switched off the power and plucked the headphones from his ears. ‘Good morning, Ben,’ she said pleasantly. ‘My name’s Dr Jackson. We’ve met before but you probably don’t remember me. I was the doctor who attended you before the ambulance arrived.’ The scowl deepened as he assessed her. ‘Are you a dyke?’ ‘Last time I looked I was.’ She prevented him retrieving the headphones by unplugging them and dropping them out of reach on the floor behind her. ‘Life’s a bitch, eh?’ ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ ‘Why not? They’re not yours and you aren’t paying for them.
It’s either me, the taxpayer, who’s funding your TV habit . . . or your poor long-suffering mother.’ She took the chair that Mrs Sykes had been sitting in.
‘It’s the law. You put your hands on me. I could have you done for assault.’
‘Then you’d better report me to Superintendent Jones the next time he questions you about the contents of your rucksack. That was some stash you had hidden away inside it. Where did it all come from?’