But murder his mother? He didn’t think he could kill her, no matter how much he hated her at that instant. The ability to strike down a stranger at any random moment may be within his twisted skill set, but to plan and execute the death of the woman who brought him into this world was too much for him. He knew that at least.
And Natalie, what would happen to her and the baby after all this?
Then, he decided, something would be done.
42
Summers and Kite sat across from Watts at his desk.
Kite was updating Watts on the door to door enquiries taking place as they spoke by five teams of two uniformed officers. Each team had a list of names and addresses of the men who fit the age range of the psychologist’s profile of The Phantom living in the right area at the right time. There were nearly sixty names on each list.
The officers had been told to get through this exercise as quickly as possible, and flag up anyone who refused the DNA swabs straight away. Realistically, to get through all the names on the list could take days, what with people being at work or just out of the house, maybe even out of the country for the time being.
Watts had been told about the red hair, both by the forensics department and by Summers, and although he knew that this was potentially evidence that The Phantom had been a woman all along, he wanted to hear Summers’ thoughts on the subject.
Summers knew that Watts didn’t believe that it was a woman, if so he wouldn’t have given the nod to the use of ten of his uniforms. He was testing her, working out how she was coping with the case, if she still had a direction, making sure she wasn’t losing sight of her goal.
She explained that firstly, the hair didn’t necessarily belong to the killer; although after re-examining the car of the deceased, forensics had alerted Summers that another hair was found on the dashboard of the car, again, tainted with blood. Suspicious? Yes. But it hadn’t confirmed anything, as of yet.
Also, a woman could have maybe overpowered a man sat down in a car, being positioned better than her victim, but all of the previous killings? Surely one of the men she had killed could have gotten the better of her. Summers didn’t mention her father, but she certainly thought of him when she made that statement.
Finally, she talked of the possibility of either a copycat, or ‘The Phantom’ actually being two people working together.
She also explained about the interview with Ben Green, and that she felt he was the closest they had come to a real suspect, with his strange behaviour, the fact he knew two of the deceased and that he also refused a DNA test.
Watts interjected, saying that the murder they’d brought him in to question him about was likely committed by a woman, and while he was in the interview room, the other murder had taken place.
‘As I said from the start of my investigations on this case, or these cases,’ replied Summers, ‘there is more than one person out there killing people.’
Kite looked down his list and saw Ben Green’s name. He’d been left off the list given to the officers making the house calls, after his refusal of the DNA test last night, there was no point badgering him again just yet.
‘I’d like a warrant to search Ben Green’s home,’ said Summers.
Watts shook his head.
‘No, I can’t give you that,’ replied Watts, ‘He had the right to refuse the DNA test, which proves nothing. He was here during one of the murders, which makes his previous friendships or working relationships with the victims less relevant. And his ‘odd’ behaviour could just be down to hearing a colleague had just been murdered, or the fact his wife, or girlfriend rather, had broken to him the news of her pregnancy.’
‘He is definitely involved in this, sir,’ she retorted. ‘That man, at the very least, knows something regarding the last two murders, maybe more if we keep digging.’
‘Then keep digging,’ said Watts. ‘Give me something solid, and I’ll give you a warrant to search his home, his car, and even his bloody underwear if need be. But, bring me something.’
Summers knew that Watts had reason behind his stance. They had already had Ben into the station for questioning and hadn’t learnt anything of any use, certainly nothing that would stand up in court; ‘he looked guilty’ doesn’t cut it these days. If Ben was behind one or more of these murders, and not leaving any evidence behind when he did so, then the best thing to do was catch him red-handed.
Walking to Kite’s car, he made his point about it being a long shot, catching The Phantom with blood on his hands after all these years, but he conceded that Green certainly looked like a guy on edge, hiding something, and any good detective should be able to see that. What he didn’t like, again, like most detectives, was Summers plan of action, a stakeout.
They stopped at a garage on the way and Kite stocked up on snacks and drinks. He had no idea how well Summers would handle the mundane task of sitting in a car and watching nothing happen for long periods of time, but he assumed the worst.
Whilst Kite was spending money on junk food and factory made sandwiches, Summers wound down her window, took out the hip-flask of whiskey from her inside jacket pocket. She took off the lid then poured out the liquid onto the ground outside. She smiled to herself as she calmly screwed the lid back on and slipped the hip-flask back into her pocket.
It was the first honest smile she could remember since a long time. She knew she was getting close to solving this case, or at least part of it, and she no longer needed to hide or dilute her emotions with alcohol.
43
The delivery man climbed back into his van, slightly confused over the latest delivery he had just made to a weary, elderly lady. An old woman, who dressed enthusiastically in red, even wore red make up that matched her red hair, but seemed to lack basic hygiene, with her wine-stained teeth and morning-breath.
Mrs Green loved her online shopping, and her most recent purchases had both been delivered to her satisfaction. Sat on the kitchen floor, were two new crates of her favourite red wine, and two large cartons of rat poison.
First things first, she opened a bottle of ‘vin rouge’ and poured into the same dirty glass she had been using for the last bottle of wine she’d been through. She took a large gulp, felt the warmth move down her throat, into her chest and finally settle in the pit of her stomach.
She walked over to the mirror, picked up her lipstick from the shelf and repainted her lips, then stared at her reflection, the woman in red that she had created when left on her own for too long, with no one to take care of her, no one to say no more wine, no one to sneak her medication into the small amount of food she would eat as when her late husband was still around to fend for her.
She blew a kiss towards the mirror, then rolled up her sleeves and grabbed the two cartons of poison, ripped open the lids, then used a kitchen knife to cut into the plastic bags that held the toxic product.
An open bag of poison in each hand, Mrs Green walked around the perimeter of her garden, laughing out loud as she sprinkled the white powder onto the lawn, onto the flowers, anywhere she had ever seen that pesky cat come and invade her territory.
Today was the first day she had hoped the cat would come back, so she could watch as the cat investigated its play area, the place it came to relax, not knowing that it’d be inhaling and rolling around in a chemical that would cause it pain, maybe make it vomit, maybe go blind. Mrs Green didn’t know what effect the rat poison would have on a cat, but she couldn’t wait to find out.
She went back inside, half-heartedly washed her hands then moved the chair to the open back door. She took her glass of wine, sat down then began the wait for her day’s entertainment. She felt good, excited even, until she was interrupted by the phone ringing.