FIND THE LADY
Roger Silverwood
ROBERT HALE · LONDON
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, U.K. MONDAY, 1 JANUARY 2007
A man was found shot dead in his first-floor flat, on Upper Sackville Street in the West End of London. He had been shot at point-blank range with clinical precision: one bullet .202 calibre straight through the forehead. There had been no report from the neighbourhood of a gunshot, so it was assumed that the pistol had been fitted with a silencer. On the body of the dead man, the murderer left a small white card with black printing, like a visiting card, that simply read: ‘With the compliments of Reynard.’ Also, pieces of orange peel were found at the scene of the crime, from which it was assumed that Reynard ate an orange after he had committed the murder.
That New Year’s Day murder was the twenty-second killing by Reynard using the same MO. The police had made no progress in identifying and apprehending the murderer. He was assumed to be a man, who worked alone. Many of the murders had been committed in London, but there had also been cases in other parts of the country and as far north as Newcastle-on-Tyne. In seven years, he had murdered more than eighteen men and four women that the police knew about. The motive for each murder was not known, although it was invariably established after their deaths that the victims had had criminal records or had been suspected of criminal activities.
The newspapers were having a field day. Whenever Reynard struck, the press, particularly the tabloids, filled their pages with every detail of the new crime and compared it with the earlier ones attributed to him, and gleefully published cartoons and disdainful copy, ridiculing the police force for their inability to bring Reynard to book.
Even in these sophisticated days of DNA, it seemed that there had never been any kind of substance, human fluid, matter or hair left behind at the scene, or anywhere else, that could be attributed to him. Every policeman in the UK was desperate to unmask and arrest him. Profilers at all levels had been making projections, but with such limited information their reports had not proved adequate.
Each of the forty-three forces, as well as the Serious Organised Crime Agency (SOCA) newly formed on 3 April 2006, was put on special watch for master serial murderer, Reynard.
WAKEFIELD, WEST YORKSHIRE, U.K. 0400 HOURS. MONDAY, 8 JANUARY, 2007
The sky was as black as an undertaker’s cat.
The heavy steel gates at Wakefield Prison, a category A secure unit, rattled open and a Group 4 white van with two uniformed men in the cab, nosed its way out. It turned left onto Love Lane and made its way through quiet, deserted halogen-lit streets and shadowy shuttered shops towards the A642 and from there onto the M1.
The white van held two crooks, each locked in separately in the small, sweaty cages in the back. One of the crooks was Eddie ‘The Cat’ Glazer, a ruthless career bank robber and murderer, as hard-boiled as a ten-minute egg. He was serving thirty years for the manslaughter of a security guard in Sheffield in 2001. The other was Harry Harrison, a jewellery thief and confidence trickster: one of several thousand … too stupid to be honest … even more stupid to get caught.
The British penal system provided for the timely movement of prisoners from time to time, so that they did not get too knowledgeable about routines and develop such relationships with prison officers or others that they might begin to devise ways of escape.
Time hangs heavy in the cells. It’s the only commodity of which there’s an oversupply and prisoners have to do something with their grey matter when cooped up behind bars twenty-four seven. Some spend their time conjuring up schemes to acquire more drugs and money, others fantasize on how to get more women and enjoy better sex, but most all of them dream how to escape from the ungodly place.
There was hardly any traffic on the damp city roads that January morning at that unsociable hour. A lone taxi and an articulated ASDA lorry circled a roundabout as the powerful Group 4 van’s headlights picked its way out of the city and eventually joined the A642. The road twisted and turned, but progress was rapid. The van had travelled only two miles out of the city however, when, coming up to a bridge over a railway line, where the road narrowed, the van’s headlights suddenly picked out two cars in the middle of the road; they appeared to have been in a serious collision. They blocked the road so that it was impossible for the van to continue its journey. The headlights of both damaged cars shone brightly but futilely; white steam issued from under a mangled bonnet and black smoke still puffed out from one of the car’s exhaust pipes.
The security driver slowed and the van headlights picked out a man lying flat on the wet road by the open door of one car. Part of his head was in a dreadful state, covered with a red glutinous liquid. A woman in the driving seat of the other car was slumped awkwardly over the driving wheel, her hair sticking out in every direction.
The Group 4 drivers had a strict protocol to deal with situations of this sort. After all, this could be a mock event staged in an attempt to release their prisoners. They promptly checked that their cab doors were locked and immediately radioed the nearest police station, which was Wakefield Westgate, and informed them of the RTA and their situation. The duty police sergeant reminded them to treat the incident with suspicion and caution, and advised that an ambulance and police support would be despatched instantly and that their ETA would be 12 minutes.
The Group 4 men eyed the scene with concern. They saw the man on the road move slightly as if having now regained limited consciousness. They could hear him calling for help. They drove the van closer until the light beam shone directly onto him. He appeared to be in great pain and as he turned to face the van they could see his face was a gory mess. He was moving his head slightly from side to side, as if he wanted to say something, and then they heard a cry from the woman in the other car.
It was too much for the driver and his mate to ignore. They decided to venture out and see if they could assist them. They opened the cab doors and the next thing they knew they were flying through the air like pilots in ejector seats. They had been pulled out by a couple of huge men in balaclavas, jeans and trainers. When the policemen picked themselves up from the road, they were looking down the barrels of old Sten guns.
The two pretending to be injured, wiped the banana and tomato ketchup off their faces, pulled on balaclavas and dashed round to support the gunmen.
No words were used. Prods with the shotguns soon had the Group 4 men at the side door of the van, unlocking it. They pushed up the step. One of the heavies peered through a narrow slot into one of the cages.
Glazer peered back. He was holding onto the door and jumping up and down, his face was red, his eyes darting round in all directions.
‘Come on, Tony,’ Glazer screamed. ‘Hurry up! Come on!’
The key was turned, the door opened and he shot out as though he was at the end of a piece of elastic.
The woman leaped forward and wrapped her arms round his neck.
‘You’re out, Eddie. You’re out!’ she squealed.
She kissed him hard on the lips but he pushed her away.
‘Yeah. Yeah. Let’s get away from here.’
There was a loud knocking from the next cage.
The heavies rammed the two Group 4 men into Glazer’s compartment: it was a tight squeeze. They closed the door and turned the key.