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‘Got a name,’ Ella said. ‘Malcolm Carpenter. He owns three of the garages according to the records.’
‘Database him,’ Ripley said.
Ella did just that, then slammed her palm on the desk in disappointment. ‘Dammit. Died ten years ago.’
‘Wait, you said he owns three of them?’
‘Yeah. Or at least he used to.’
‘I know my memory is hazy in my old age, but there were four garages along that row last night.’
Ella returned to the screen, her focus sharpening. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Let me check the fourth.’
She dug deeper into the property records, retrieving the information on the final garage. She’d overlooked it because it had been listed separately from the others, and as she focused, the transaction date leaped off the screen like a glaring beacon.
‘Oh damn,’ Ella said, experiencing her first dopamine rush of the day. ‘This garage changed hands six months ago.’
Ripley maneuvered herself to the other side of the table to peer closer at Ella’s findings. ‘Six months ago. Triggers take about six months to come to fruition, so that fits with our killer’s timeline. He could have lost his house, become homeless, forced to live in a garage.’
‘Right,’ Ella said. Ella delved deeper, navigating through digital archives with the precision of a surgeon. The new owner's name appeared, a jigsaw piece that didn't quite fit the puzzle. ‘It's owned by a... David Hargreaves.’
‘Know the name? Has it cropped up anywhere?’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ Ella admitted. ‘I’ll see what I can find on him.’
She accessed the police database, keying in David Hargreaves' name and narrowing her results down to the Stamford area. The screen blinked, returning no matches, no answers.
‘No criminal record,’ Ripley said.
‘I’ll try other databases.’ She expanded her search, tapping into public records and land registries. She scanned through names and addresses, cross-referencing their whereabouts with the crime scene locations. Whoever this perpetrator was, decades of psychological research suggested he lived or worked within ten miles of the first crime scene. Serial killers almost never began hunting in areas they weren’t familiar with. Criminal psychology rarely led Ella astray, despite what the new director believed.
'Closest David Hargreaves I've got lives eleven miles out, and he's thirty-seven years old. I can't work out if it's the same guy that owns these garages, but he's the only David Hargreaves nearby.'
‘Eleven miles. Might be too far out,’ Ripley said. ‘Check his employment. He might have a workplace a little closer.’
Ella quickly accessed a local employment database, scanning the screen with precision. She found David Hargreaves’ history, and to her surprise, it was a brief one.
‘He’s worked at a newspaper for twelve years. The Stamford Insider. Business premises are five miles from here.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a reputable outlet. What is he, a journalist?’
Ella had to dig a little deeper before she landed on David Hargreaves’ official title.
And when she did, her pulse rate shot up.
DAVID HARGREAVES – PUZZLE EDITOR.
‘Puzzle Editor,’ said Ella. The revelation felt like a missing piece slotting into place. ‘That’s interesting.’
Ripley looked over her shoulder. ‘A guy who creates puzzles for a living?’
‘Looks like it,’ Ella said. She tried to glean some more information about the gentleman but couldn’t find much beyond a minimal employment history. He didn’t have any social media profiles that Ella could find. ‘He stays below the radar too.’
‘Odd,’ Ripley said. ‘Seems like an anomaly to me.’
Ella spun around. ‘How so?’
‘You ever met newspaper folk before?’
