TWENTY-THREE
McNeil couldn’t talk but
he could write. At first his account of his crimes had been
coherent and had provided the solution to all Joe’s unanswered
questions. But now nothing he wrote made any sort of sense. It was
as if his mind had been taken over by some chaotic force. Madness
maybe. Joe sat by his carefully guarded hospital bed and watched
him scribbling words on a notepad. In times gone by, he thought,
people would have assumed that he was possessed by some sort of
demon. But in the rational age of reason and mundane explanations,
no doubt the hospital’s psychiatric department would claim to have
the solution to the riddle that was the killer’s mind.
He seemed almost unaware of Joe’s watchful presence
and from time to time he’d tear sheets of paper off his notepad and
chuck them on the shiny linoleum floor. Joe picked them up and read
the scribbled words. Demon. Kill. Grace. Laugh. Punish. Demon. He
folded them carefully and put them in his pocket.
If you knew the truth about the murder of Grace
Cassidy, Andy’s sister who laughed at her brother’s socially
awkward friend, there was a kind of logic behind the words. Grace
had offended him and she was punished. As was Sharon Bell, Den’s
girlfriend who used to object when he stared at her, who used to
urge Den not to see him because he gave her the creeps. She’d been
his enemy so she’d had to die and he’d put out her eyes – those big
blue eyes with the long lashes he’d found so fascinating. Then
there was the whore in London who’d asked for more money. Then
there was Pet who’d asked those awkward questions about her mother
and who’d looked so tempting at that party when he’d watched her,
dressed as death. And Anna who’d seen him leave Cassidy’s house
early and suspected the truth. She’d called him, wanting money to
ensure her silence and her fate was sealed.
These women had offended him and each time he’d
used their offences to justify taking their lives. The demon in his
head provided the perfect excuse.
But in all McNeil’s ramblings there had been no
mention of Pet’s mother. And yet he’d been in possession of her
photograph. The leaflets Paolo had given him suggested that McNeil
had shown her round a number of properties before she disappeared.
Had he killed her too because she rebuffed his advances? There was
no evidence either way. Perhaps it would remain one of those
unsolved mysteries that frustrate the police from time to
time.
McNeil was so engrossed in his writing that he
didn’t even look up when Joe’s phone rang. Joe took the call
outside the room, nodding to the constable who had been given the
tedious task of guarding the prisoner.
The call was from Emily and she wanted to know
whether McNeil was in any condition to provide a formal statement.
Joe said he didn’t think so but Emily seemed unfazed. They had more
than enough evidence now, she said.
And there was something new: the search team who
were taking the Flower Street house apart had just made a discovery
in the garden. When they’d dug up an area near the house they’d
found a body buried about three feet down. The body was that of a
woman in her thirties and, obligingly, her handbag and a holdall
had been buried with her.
The name on the bank card found in the handbag was
Helen Ferribie.
Kirsten was in Eborby General Hospital for a week
before the doctors reckoned she was well enough to be discharged.
Joe visited her whenever he called in to see how McNeil was doing.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
And when she was discharged he told the ward sister
that he’d be willing to look after her. She was Kaitlin’s sister
after all, his only link with the woman who’d been most precious to
him. And besides, he wanted the opportunity to convince her once
and for all that he had nothing to do with Kaitlin’s death.
However, he was hardly surprised when she refused
his offer and told him that she was going back down south. They
parted at the hospital entrance, crowded with visitors and
outpatients unaware of the little drama going on a few feet
away.
‘You’re still not well. You should stay,’ Joe said,
trying to sound sincere.
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t know why you
didn’t let that lunatic kill me.’ Then the defiance appeared in her
eyes and Joe saw he had failed. ‘You would have done if other
people hadn’t been there to see.’
Joe looked away. ‘You’re talking rubbish
again.’
But Kirsten leaned towards him, talking in a
whisper. ‘I still think you had something to do with Kaitlin’s
death. I haven’t found enough evidence yet but one
day . . .’
Joe said nothing. There would be no happy ending
and tearful reconciliation. Even the fact that he’d saved the
woman’s life had made no difference.
‘Good luck,’ he said. Then he walked away.