Stay Alive Page 4

  ‘You’d think they’d have a state-of-the-art security system living round here,’ said Mo.

  ‘They do. And CCTV cameras covering the back and the front of the property. But the alarm wasn’t on, and it looks like the CCTV camera round the back was tampered with.’

  ‘How?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘The lens has been spray-painted black. The camera itself is about ten feet up an apple tree in the garden, facing the back door. My guess is the suspect shinned up the tree and did it.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’

  Black nodded. ‘Sure. Follow me.’

  As they walked down the driveway and round the side of the house, Bolt noticed a pool of vomit congealing on the front doorstep.

  ‘That came out of the first officer on the scene,’ Black told them matter-of-factly. ‘Apparently, the two upstairs were his first murder victims. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s not very pretty up there.’

  Bolt flashed back to the last Disciple murder scene. The blood and the horror. ‘Poor sod,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you ever get used to that kind of thing.’ But he noticed that Black didn’t seem unduly concerned by what he’d witnessed. Maybe some cops did get used to it after all, and he was the exception rather than the rule.

  The rear garden was several hundred feet long and about half as wide, and was enclosed by the same high brick wall that lined the front of the property. Mature bushes and foliage ran along the borders, while beech trees from the encroaching woods loomed up beyond the wall. Apart from the occasional birdsong and the faint hum of rush-hour traffic from the nearby A33, the woods were silent.

  ‘The camera’s up on this tree here.’

  Bolt followed the angle of Black’s finger to a point about halfway up an apple tree that stood a couple of yards beyond the patio at the back of the house. There was still plenty of foliage on it, and even a few mouldy-looking apples. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ he said.

  Mo shook his head. ‘Neither can I.’

  The two of them approached the tree, and only when he was at the bottom looking up could Bolt make out the black box partly concealed by a branch. It would have been easy enough for the suspect to have got up there and spray-painted it, but only if he knew where he was looking. He turned to Black. ‘How the hell did he know it was there?’

  Black shrugged. ‘He’s your killer, DCS Bolt. Not ours. I thought he was meant to spend a lot of time casing the homes of his victims before he went in. If he knew what he was looking for, he would have found it eventually.’

  It was a fair point, and once again it made Bolt realize how carefully their killer picked his targets and planned his attacks. ‘Can you take us through what happened here?’ he asked.

  ‘We haven’t interviewed the woman who survived the attack, but her name’s Amanda Rowan and she’s the wife of the male victim, George Rowan. From what we can piece together, she came home and disturbed the killer, who was in the process, or had just finished, murdering George Rowan and a woman we’ve tentatively identified as 29-year-old Ivana Hanzha. Miss Hanzha is listed on the payroll of the investment bank that Mr Rowan works for.’

  ‘So we can assume she was Mr Rowan’s lover.’

  ‘It looks that way. Anyway, we think Mrs Rowan’s arrival wasn’t expected, either by the victims or the killer. There was some sort of confrontation and then the killer chased her out of the house.’

  ‘You said there was CCTV at the front,’ said Mo. ‘Did that capture anything, or was that tampered with too?’

  ‘No it wasn’t, and yes it did,’ answered Black. ‘We examined the footage a couple of hours ago and it clearly shows Amanda Rowan entering the property at nine fifty-three p.m. last night, and then exiting again through the front door at nine fifty-six, being chased by a man dressed entirely in black and wearing a black ski mask. He grabs her and slashes her on the arm with a knife, but she manages to wriggle out of his grip and then disappears from shot. After that, it seems she ran to the nearest neighbour – an old lady called Vera Naseby, who lives about a hundred metres away. We haven’t interviewed her yet, but she was the one who called 999 and alerted us to what was going on.’

  ‘It looks like Mrs Rowan had an incredibly lucky escape,’ said Bolt.

  Black nodded. ‘Even luckier than you think, because the killer continued to chase her. When Mrs Naseby answered the door, he was right behind her. He followed her into the house and up the stairs. She had to jump out of Mrs Naseby’s bedroom window to get away from him.’

  Bolt and Mo exchanged puzzled glances. The Disciple might have been deranged but he’d always shown himself to be an efficient operator. ‘Maybe he’s more hot-headed than we thought,’ said Bolt slowly.

  ‘Maybe he just doesn’t like leaving witnesses,’ said Black.

  ‘You said in the footage that the suspect was wearing a ski mask. So why risk chasing a witness through a neighbour’s house, especially if she hasn’t seen your face? It just seems unduly reckless.’

  Nobody had an answer to that one, but Bolt was hoping the reason was because The Disciple was becoming caught up in his own hype, and now believed he was untouchable. It was a reasonable enough explanation. Sociopathic killers experience a real sense of power from ending the lives of their victims. If they get too much of it, and think they’re more powerful than they really are, they end up doing stupid things.

  ‘Come on,’ said Black. ‘Let me show you inside.’

  They stopped at the open back door – a standard half-glass PVC design – and checked the lock. It was undamaged, but this didn’t tell them anything. They already knew that The Disciple had housebreaking expertise, since he’d got into the other three properties through locked doors.

  ‘So we reckon he must have been watching the place a while, seen that the couple were inside. Then, when the coast was clear, he came in this way.’ Black led them into a huge, spacious, open-plan kitchen, where a couple of white-suited SOCO were dusting for prints. Even downstairs, the smell hit Bolt immediately – a sour, pungent stink of turned meat – and he tensed. He would have given a month’s wages then not to see the bodies, but knew he was going to have to. He needed to be sure that this was the work of the man he was after.

  They followed a line of red markers on the floor through the kitchen and into an even bigger lounge with three separate sofas and a huge plasma TV taking up the majority of one wall. Ahead of them was the front door, next to which was a pair of high-heeled court shoes, one of which was on its side. Amanda Rowan would have kicked them off as she came in the door, presumably having no idea what was about to happen to her. A staircase ran up to the next floor and, as Bolt followed Black up it, he imagined The Disciple creeping up here, knife in hand, listening for sounds of life. It took an amazing amount of self-confidence to enter a home like this, not knowing your way around it, and hunt down your prey, knowing that you were always one against two.

  The smell grew stronger.

  ‘I’ve got Vicks if you need it,’ said Black, taking out a handkerchief and putting it to his nose as he reached the top of the stairs. He motioned to an open door at the end of the landing, behind which a couple of white-uniformed SOCO were working.

  Bolt shook his head and moved past Black, wanting to get this over and done with, Mo following him. The two SOCO looked up as Bolt walked into the bedroom, then turned back to what they were doing as he inspected the scene grimly.

  It was a bloody mess like all the others, the bodies still lying where they’d fallen for the last time. The male victim – George Rowan – was tied to a chair at the foot of a large iron-framed double bed, facing towards it. He was naked, and there was a deep knife wound in his lower thigh just above the knee, which had bled profusely. There were other wounds to his abdomen, face and groin too, where he’d been deliberately cut by his attacker. But it was the thigh wound that Bolt was most interested in, because this was the typical first strike of The Disciple. It was how he liked to operate – sneaking in and disabling
the male half of the couple by stabbing him in the thigh, before restraining them both. Rowan’s head was slumped forward, his grey-black hair obscuring his face, but Bolt could clearly see that his throat had been cut.

  The woman – Ivana Hanzha – was lying on her back on the double bed, her naked body drenched in blood from a number of different stab wounds, several of which had been aimed at her genitals. She was young, and even now Bolt could see she’d been pretty. Her eyes were closed and there was a peaceful expression on her face that belied the savagery that must have invaded her last few minutes. Her arms had been pulled up above her head, the wrists handcuffed to the wrought-iron bedstead. The handcuffs used were the old-fashioned, chain-link style – the same type that The Disciple had used in his second attack six months earlier. The roll of duct tape used to restrain Mr Rowan was also similar to that used by The Disciple, but it was the two long lines of blood smeared on the far wall, meeting at one end like the sides of a triangle – as if the killer had been trying to paint something but had been disturbed – that confirmed it for Bolt. He knew exactly what it was the killer had been trying to paint. The Disciple left a bloody pentacle on the wall of every murder scene; it was his grim calling card, and he would have done it here if Amanda Rowan hadn’t come home when she had. He also noticed that the little finger on Ivana Hanzha’s left hand was still there, meaning he hadn’t had a chance to remove it as a trophy.

  Bolt took one last look at the bodies, thinking that this was the indignity of violent death. You were left on display while the living worked around you. You were photographed and inspected, then finally cut up on a pathologist’s table. You were no longer human. Instead you were little more than a puzzle to be solved by those who didn’t know you, and a slowly fading memory to be kept, and possibly treasured, by those who did. The sight left him feeling deeply depressed. Here were two people who’d been making love and enjoying each other’s company without a care in the world. There was even a bottle of red wine and two half-full glasses. They might have been committing an infidelity but, even so, they’d been alive. Excited. Now they were nothing.

  He turned away. ‘It’s our man,’ he said to Mo as he walked back onto the landing, wanting to get some fresh air before nausea joined the depression.

  ‘We think he came up here and waited until they were in bed together before he carried out the attack,’ said Black.

  Bolt nodded; usually The Disciple waited until his victims were asleep before striking. Once again, it seemed as if he was getting braver, and potentially more foolish. ‘We’re going to need to see the CCTV footage, Matt, and I’d also like to know what time the camera out the back was tampered with.’

  ‘We can do that, no problem. Are you sure this is him?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Bolt. ‘It’s him all right.’

  When he and Mo were outside the back door, Bolt took a series of deep breaths, trying to cleanse himself of the stink of death.

  ‘Are you all right, boss?’ asked Mo who, like DCI Black, didn’t seem to be that badly affected by the sight of murder victims.

  Bolt sighed. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

  Mo looked around. ‘You know, he took a big risk last night, chasing Amanda Rowan like that. He was lucky. He won’t always be so lucky, and he may well have left clues behind this time.’

  ‘I want to be the one who nicks this bastard,’ said Bolt. But, in truth, he wanted to kill him. Someone as savage as this man simply didn’t deserve to live. He didn’t deserve to grow old in a relatively comfortable prison with a TV in his cell and access to the Internet, funded by the taxpayer. Bolt had never been a supporter of the death penalty, but in the case of The Disciple, he’d make an exception.

  ‘You can’t let it get to you, boss,’ said Mo quietly. ‘I know it’s hard and I know we’re under a lot of pressure, but we’ll get him. And I reckon this might be the turning point.’

  Seven

  THE FIRST THING Mike Bolt thought when he saw Amanda Rowan in her hospital bed a few hours later was that she was a very attractive woman, especially considering what she’d been through. He’d already been told that she was thirty-eight – nine years younger than her husband – but she could easily have passed for five years younger than that. She had the slender, healthy appearance of someone who keeps fit but doesn’t have to try too hard at it, with tanned, unblemished skin, and shoulder-length black hair that looked like something out of a shampoo advert. She had nice eyes too. Big and brown, the kind that a certain type of man always falls for.

  Bolt stopped, feeling bad suddenly for even thinking about what she looked like. She’d already been told that her husband was dead, and it was clear that she’d been crying, but when she looked at him and Mo, it was also clear that she was in full control of her emotions.

  Bolt introduced them both, and they took seats next to her bed. ‘The doctor said you were okay to speak with us,’ he began. ‘I’d just like to say on behalf of us all that I’m very sorry for your loss, and we really appreciate the fact that you’re willing to speak with us. We want to arrest whoever did this, and we will.’

  Amanda Rowan managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you. Have you any idea who it might have been?’ Her accent was well-educated Home Counties and there was an underlying lightness to her voice that gave Bolt the impression that, in normal times, she laughed a lot.

  ‘It’s too early to draw firm conclusions,’ said Bolt, ‘but the killing bears certain similarities to those carried out by The Disciple. I’m assuming you’ve heard of him?’

  The colour drained from Amanda’s face, and she ran a hand across her brow. ‘Yes . . . Yes, I have. Jesus.’

  ‘You were very lucky, Mrs Rowan,’ said Mo. ‘If it was The Disciple, then you’re the first person to survive one of his attacks.’

  ‘I saw a woman when I went upstairs . . . Was she . . . with my husband?’

  ‘We believe your husband was at home with a woman, yes,’ said Bolt without hesitation, wanting to soften the blow but knowing he couldn’t. ‘She’s been tentatively identified as a Miss Ivana Hanzha. Did you know her?’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘No, but I knew George was having an affair. I found out by accident a few weeks ago. I was going to confront him about it.’ She sighed. ‘But I suppose I was just waiting for the right opportunity. He was meant to be away on business in Manchester last night.’

  Bolt wondered what it was like for her not only to have lost her husband, but also to know that he’d spent his last hours with another woman – and then to have almost died in a savage attack. Under the circumstances, she was holding herself together incredibly well.

  He asked her to give them a detailed account of what had happened from the moment she’d arrived back to when she’d nearly been hit by the car, letting her speak without interruption. It made for a chilling story, but the lengths to which the killer had gone to try to catch her still bugged him. Why take such a huge risk when he’d already had his fun with George Rowan and Ivana Hanzha?

  ‘Can you tell us anything about your attacker that might help us identify him?’ asked Mo when Amanda had finished speaking.

  She thought about it for a moment. ‘A tattoo. He had a tattoo on his left forearm. I saw it when I was hanging from Mrs Naseby’s window. She’s okay, isn’t she? Mrs Naseby?’

  Bolt nodded. ‘She’s very shaken, obviously, but otherwise unhurt. She’s a feisty woman.’

  ‘Poor thing. Thank God she’s okay.’ Amanda looked down at her hands and Bolt could tell she was struggling hard not to cry again.

  ‘Can you describe the tattoo, Mrs Rowan?’ asked Mo. ‘Take your time. It could be very important.’

  Amanda swallowed and looked up. ‘Well I . . . I didn’t really get a good look at it. Obviously I was concentrating on trying to escape. It was dark green, I think, and sort of a curved pattern.’ She paused and frowned. ‘That’s about as much as I can tell you. I’m sorry.’

  But it was something. Their one witness description of a
potential suspect had mentioned that he had a tattoo on his left forearm. Bolt leaned forward in his seat. ‘And you can’t tell us anything else about him? You didn’t catch a glimpse of his face? Any other features? Did he speak at all?’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. As I said, I was desperate to escape. Did the CCTV camera catch him on film? We’ve got cameras at the back and the front of the house.’

  ‘We’ve got him captured on film, yes, but at the time he was wearing a mask and dark clothing, which isn’t a huge help.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t really got anything else.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously near your home in the days, even the weeks, leading up to the incident?’

  Again she shook her head, but Bolt was leaning forward, impatient suddenly. ‘You say he chased you through the house, and even through your neighbour’s house, even though she was there at the time . . .’

  ‘He did. Ask her if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rowan, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but I’m struggling to understand – if there was no way you could identify him – why the killer took the time and trouble to chase you into a neighbour’s house, risking everything, when by rights he should have been thinking of escape. If this is the work of The Disciple, then it’s showing a reckless side to him we haven’t seen before.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him, but you seemed to think it was.’

  Bolt and Mo exchanged glances. They’d discussed the apparent recklessness of the killer’s actions before they’d come in to interview Amanda. Mo had been convinced it was The Disciple, and he’d be even more convinced now; Bolt had thought it highly likely. He still thought it was highly likely. But he wasn’t certain.