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“All of this ties in with something else that’s been pointed out. If he is still here, why has no one seen him? Maybe it’s because he’s changed his identity. If he’s innocent and not dangerous, then maybe he’s in danger. If he’s guilty and dangerous, he may just be the worst serial killer in history, and he’s on our patch. We cannot let him walk again. I want another media blitz and I also want you guys to do what you do best. Concentrate your efforts on finding him.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Grace Browne, aka Jane Rogers, glanced around. Her ears were ringing. When did she grow old?
Ten-thirty on a Thursday evening, Silhouettes was bouncing. She couldn’t remember the last nightclub she’d been in, but very little had changed. It was all leather seating, uncomfortable round stools, balconies. The walls were full of speakers and spotlights, with private booths. She’d been upstairs – all hush-hush with its tiled floor, black columns, secluded seating in front of arched windows, all of which she was convinced hid a number of offences. Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. People talked in corners under low-level lighting; the women wore short skirts; the men were drooling, hoping to pull them. She’d rather be elsewhere, but she hadn’t spent more than half her life chasing a rainbow to back out now.
Earlier in the day she’d left work, showered, pampered herself before leaving the flat. She’d spotted the man she wanted, boarding a bus into Leeds, which she managed to catch before it set off. She’d followed him all around town. He’d eaten at The Orchid Lounge, before leaving and walking up The Calls, on to Crown Street. Grace followed, even though it was the last place in the world to be wandering around after dark. She didn’t care.
Around the back of The Corn Exchange, he’d finally slipped into the nightclub.
Grace went to the toilet. When she returned, she couldn’t believe her luck. Critchley was standing at the bar, next to her stool. She took a sip of her Baileys. He ordered a glass of red, before glancing in her direction while waiting for his drink.
Inwardly, she grinned. He had no idea who she was. Naturally, she did not resemble her photo on Findadate. Gone was the black hair in a bob, replaced by a blonde wig. She wore glasses and heavy make-up. Not his type in the slightest.
He’d also altered his appearance considerably; he was nothing like the photos he’d been using on the dating site. He’d cut his hair a little shorter, tinted it grey, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.
“You don’t look old enough to enjoy this stuff,” he said, leaning in.
“I’m not. What is it?” she replied.
“Music for the soul, love, that’s what it is.”
She’d hooked him. He leaned further forward. She was close enough to inhale his favourite cologne, Brut 33. God, people still wore that stuff! Her skin crawled.
“A good decade for music, this,” he shouted. “Forget the sixties, the Beatles and the Merseybeat sound. This is all you need.”
“If you say so.”
“What are you doing here if you don’t know this stuff?”
She stood up quickly, knocking into Critchley, dropping her purse. They both went down to pick it up. She stopped, allowed him some chivalry. Her action was deliberate. She quickly managed to slip a pound coin into his back pocket. Not an ordinary one. She bought it recently on the Net. It had a tracking device.
He stood up and held out her purse.
“Thank you,” she replied, reaching out, thoroughly disgusted that she had to take it from his hand. Wondering when he’d last washed it. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Me, too,” shouted Critchley, as his drink was placed on the bar. He paid and then took a sip. “Well, I hope she turns up.”
Jane simply nodded as he made his way upstairs. It was obviously a good vantage point, but she doubted he would see much with all the flashing lights that had started. Mind, he wasn’t going to see anything at all. She knew that. She also wondered how he would react later in the evening. Furthermore, what would his reaction be when she finally confronted him? Grace couldn’t wait for that day. Her thoughts wandered, once again, back to a point where she had really closed in on him, and discovered yet more victims.
The fourth had taken her completely across the country to Whitehaven, Lancashire. Her name was Jane Sullivan. She was his type – long black hair, blue eyes. They met at a caravan site on the coast near Cumbria. His name was Rupert Conway. Jane Sullivan was forty-one, single, no children, no family. She’d been left a tidy sum by her late husband Steven. She had ploughed that into a pub. Rupert had eventually moved in with her. He’d been living in Whitehaven in a small bedsit above a high street shop and working one night a week in the pub.
Things, as usual, must have gone wrong.
In the early hours one morning, an explosion in the cellar nearly blew the pub apart. He was injured severely enough to land up in hospital. Jane Sullivan died. Once out of hospital, he disappeared. The trail would have gone cold but for one elderly local who happened to make a comment that the fair was in town that week, and Rupert had been seen talking to the owner quite a lot. How ironic that when the fair left town, so did he.
So Grace had set to work again. She consulted the association of travelling fairs, which had kept scant records of all showground movement and travellers. It wasn’t an easy job because they moved around so much and people joined and left so easily, there was no guarantee that the person she was searching for would be there.
In 2008, however, she discovered a man by the name of Roland Curtis who had drifted into the seaside town of Llandudno. When the fair left, he didn’t. Roland started seeing a woman by the name of Jane Jenkins. She lived in the small village of Betws-y-Coed, North Wales. He was residing in the seaside resort of Llandudno, working as a deck chair attendant. The dating website was once again the link.
Jane Jenkins had never been married, never had children. Her only family was an aged mother and a sister; they took it in turns to care for their mother. She was a state registered nurse and travelled the area extensively caring for old people. She had a round in which she dropped in on most of them every day, and tended to organise a meals-on-wheels schedule for them. She was his type.
He eventually moved in with her and found work with a local carpenter. Once again, the relationship hit the rocks. Jane Jenkins was an asthmatic. No one had seen her for quite some time, but the news suddenly came out that she had died from a massive stroke. They’d heard that he’d called for an ambulance. There was nothing the doctors could do. Immediate family were informed. Everyone sympathised with Roland, reckoned it was the loss of her mother that brought it on. Within weeks he had left town.
Grace returned to the present as a drink was put in front of her. She stared at the barman. “I didn’t order this.”
