Shadows. Paul Finch

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       Chapter 7

      Detective Inspector Stan Beardmore was a short, squat chap in his mid-fifties. He had snow-white hair, which he always kept close-cut, and was habitually clean-shaven and well-groomed, though this tended to clash with his shabby tweed jackets; he had a brown one and a green one, and he alternated them on a weekly basis – even though both had seen better days, with frayed cuffs and leather-patched elbows. He was a good boss, though. Lucy had quickly come to realise that his affable nature masked a sharp mind and years of experience. On top of that, rather than being a stickler for paperwork or procedure, he was trusting of his detectives and encouraged independence of thought.

      On this occasion, however, he seemed a tad dubious.

      He sat behind his desk in his own office, an annex to the DO, and leafed through the pile of print-outs that Lucy had handed him. For the most part, these were selected extracts from the policy file of the Major Investigation Team down at West Midlands CID, mainly crime-scene reports and glossies, witness statements (for what they were worth, which wasn’t much), several e-fits, and a detailed psychological profile, as prepared by a forensic psychologist.

      ‘So, West Mids were happy to share?’ Beardmore flipped pages but only really skimmed what they contained.

      ‘Think they’re keen to wrap this thing up,’ Lucy replied. ‘Any help GMP can give them and all that.’

      ‘And what exactly do we know about this Creep fella?’

      ‘According to the notes, he’s a biggish bloke. About six-one, six-two, heavy build. The psyche profile makes him a young-to-middle aged male, most likely white, probably out of work or in low-paid employment.’

      ‘No kidding.’ Beardmore turned one of the e-fits around; it depicted a pale moonlike face under a heavy hood, with tiny, narrow eyes, a near non-existent nose and a jack-o’-lantern grin which split the visage from ear to ear. ‘Thought they’d be queuing up to recruit this fella.’

      ‘I spoke to a DS Broadhurst, who’s Document Reader in the West Mids MIR,’ Lucy replied. ‘He says they reckon this Creep business is a bit contrived. The manic grin, the sword … it’s his theory that they could be looking for someone a bit more stable than that suggests.’

      ‘Someone who’s capable of putting an act on?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘And if that’s the case, why do we assume he’s going to reoffend while he’s on his holidays up here?’

      Lucy paused before responding. She’d been through all the November Division crime reports taken that last week, and though there was the usual quota of assaults and street robberies, none were like-for-like with the attacks in the West Midlands. As such, with no actual crime for Crowley CID to investigate, she was now proposing that they put some spotters on the street at night in anticipation; maybe even use decoys. If the Creep’s past form was anything to go by, he’d commit his offences in proximity to town centre cashpoints. Lucy had even produced a map of central Crowley and had earmarked certain hotspots they could prioritise.

      ‘In answer to your question, boss,’ she said, ‘we don’t know whether he’ll reoffend while he’s here, or not. But just because the psyche evaluation suggests he’s an organised offender, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have mental problems. It also, see …’ she indicated a particular paragraph, which she’d underlined with red biro, ‘… it proposes the possibility that, whoever he is, he’s suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder.’

      ‘So, he’s a sociopath. There’s a surprise.’

      ‘At the very least he’s a sociopath, I’d say. Look at this section.’ She read aloud: ‘“The offender demonstrates a considerable degree of delusion. For example, taking precautions to avoid identification but at the same time not realising that such a distinctive and exaggerated MO will in itself narrow his chances of remaining at liberty. The same conclusion may be drawn from his chosen attack-zones, the vicinities around cash machines, which any ordinary thief would surely expect to be progressively more heavily policed. Highly likely, the offender knows right from wrong, and is thus able to function normally when it pleases him, which will be most of the time. However, there are clear indications that when his desire to inflict violence becomes overwhelming, there is little to hold him back.”’

      Beardmore looked to be lost in thought.

      ‘In other words,’ Lucy said, ‘it’s quite possible that when he slips back into this deluded state, whether he’s down in Brum or up here in Crowley, he’ll go straight back to work, as Jerry McGlaglen calls it.’

      ‘That McGlaglen’s an oddball. Are we sure he’s given us everything on this he’s got?’

      ‘Well … we’re never sure of that, are we.’

      ‘He’s grassed for us a few times, hasn’t he?’

      ‘Been good as gold up till now.’

      Beardmore eyed her carefully. ‘What does Harry Jepson think?’

      She shrugged. As Jerry McGlaglen’s joint handler, Lucy had spoken about it to Harry on the phone, but in truth he hadn’t been especially interested, pointing out in his usual frustrated way that they had more than enough work to be getting on with already.

      ‘He thinks it sounds promising,’ she lied, feeling certain she could pull Harry along.

      ‘Well …’ Beardmore planted both hands on the spillage of paper in front of him. ‘I can see you’ve done quite a bit of spadework on this, Lucy. An impressive amount, given the short time you’ve had available.’ He arched a busy white eyebrow. ‘But I can’t help wondering what it’s got to do with the burglaries I assigned you and Harry to look into on Hatchwood Green?’

      Her cheeks coloured, but she’d been expecting this. ‘Harry’s still over there.’

      ‘I wanted both of you over there.’

      ‘I’ll be going there soon … I just thought you’d want this bringing to your attention.’

      ‘Hmm.’ He pondered. And then sighed. ‘Crowley CID certainly hasn’t got the time or resources to mount a surveillance on every cashpoint in town on the off-chance this nutcase breaks his cover. But … DI Blake may be a different story.’

      ‘DI Blake?’ Lucy was a little surprised. ‘You mean the Robbery Squad?’

      ‘Why not?’ Beardmore scrabbled the various documents and photographs together. ‘They’re in trouble, aren’t they? Could be just what they need, this, a big case to get their teeth into. A result wouldn’t do them any harm, either.’

      No, Lucy thought to herself, somewhat ruefully. Nor me.