‘After Gleason was arrested – as a result of the facial reconstruction provided by Dr Cramer, and his last victim – Vaughan thought that the case against him was so strong, the evidence from Cassie Veringer together with the forensic matches would guarantee a death sentence. And, of course, he was right.
‘From reading Vaughan’s notes it seems that he felt sorry for Roberta, who was already in a vulnerable state. She told him that she couldn’t face testifying against her father. She had escaped the past and wanted to build a new future for herself, a future in which she hoped to help others as a nurse. She worried about the stability of her mental health, especially if she was forced to stand up in court. Vaughan knew that, as a professional, he should report her evidence so that the state prosecutor should decide on the best course of action, but he chose not to.’
The room fell quiet.
‘I know what Vaughan did was way out of order, and as a fellow detective I have to condemn him for that, but as a man I admire him. He knew that Roberta’s testimony would not add anything to the strength of the prosecution’s case. After what Roberta had been through he didn’t want her to be Gleason’s final victim.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Helen. ‘And that certainly helps explain a lot of things. I wondered why she looked so haunted.’
‘But she’s okay?’
‘Yeah, apart from the obvious distress about being reminded about her father she seemed to be fine.’
‘What did you say about why you wanted to speak to her?’
‘Just that it was a routine inquiry, which of course she didn’t believe. So then I told her there were certain things that I couldn’t talk about, which she seemed to understand.’
‘And she’s received nothing suspicious?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Good, and it would be great if you could keep a friendly watch over her.’ Harper ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘So it seems Vaughan’s decision was the right one, after all.’
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed slightly as she said, ‘You think that if he had forced her to give evidence then she would have received something nasty in the mail?’
‘Maybe, yes. So at least it saved her that trauma.’ He checked his watch. ‘Okay, that’s enough for today. The first priority is finding these five men. Agreed?’ Again Harper did not wait for an answer. ‘Any other questions?’ There were none. ‘We haven’t got much time.’
14
Fucking coward. The chickenshit, yellow coward. He knew he shouldn’t think those kind of thoughts, use those kind of words, but wife beaters were the lowest of the low. Beneath contempt.
He stared at the bald-headed man sitting on the bar stool and imagined what he could do to him. How good it would feel to take hold of a brick and slam it into his skull, reduce it to a bloody pulp. If he did it hard enough, he thought, he could even break the bone and destroy the white brain matter beneath.
‘You want another?’ asked the bartender.
‘Sure,’ said the man on the bar stool.
‘You just travelling through?’
‘Could say that.’
‘Thought so. Haven’t seen you in here before. You live in LA?’
The man nodded slowly, took a sip of his bourbon, and then looked down, a gesture that clearly signalled an end to the exchange. Since his release from the state prison he had perfected the art of non-communication. He stared at the TV screen in the corner of the dark room and pretended to watch a football game. All he could think about was his kid, Danny. Tomorrow was his 13th birthday. Another birthday he wouldn’t see his father. It just didn’t seem fair somehow to be denied the right to see his own son. Sure, he could understand why he wasn’t allowed to make contact with Sharon. Why would he want to see that whore anyway, he thought. He should have finished her off when he had the chance. But a boy needed his father, especially at that age. The forced separation from Danny had been much worse to bear than those years in prison. And now? Why was he still being punished for a crime that he’d served time for? Like he said, the system was full of shit.
He looked at his watch. He would have to be getting back on the road. He’d been making the same journey from LA down to New Mexico for the last three years now, always at the same time of year. He’d drive for nearly 700 miles, often through the night, until he reached Albuquerque. There, he’d park at a safe distance from the house, take out the binoculars and watch. He’d do his best to hold the binoculars steady, but when Danny came out of the house his hands would start to shake. He’d cuss himself, tell himself to hold still, but it didn’t make a difference. Those few snatched, jumpy images would have to satisfy him until the same time the following year. He’d often thought about leaving a card or a present on the doorstep, but he was wise enough to realise that not only would Sharon move to a different address, perhaps even a new state, but that he’d almost certainly be risking re-arrest under the terms of his parole.
As he finished the last of his bourbon he heard a chair scrape across the tiled floor. The only other customer, a man wearing a black baseball cap pulled down over his face, picked up his copy of the Times, stood up and left the bar. Perhaps he was like him, a man with something to hide.
He caught the barman’s attention and settled his bill.
‘You got a long drive ahead of you?’
‘Kinda.’
‘Well you take care now.’
He nodded and stood up, steadying himself against the bar.
‘You sure that you’re okay to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re the boss.’
He walked out of the darkened bar into sunlight so bright he had to shield his eyes. As he fumbled for his car keys in his pocket he heard the sound of a car engine nearby. He squinted through the sunlight to see the man with the baseball cap sitting in the driver’s seat.
He pressed the central locking device and his car came into life. He’d drive for another four or five hours and then take a break, by which point he would be nearly at Albuquerque. He didn’t need to piss, but if he did he knew he could just pull up on the side of the road to relieve himself. As he got into the grey, mid-range saloon he thought back to the Beemer he used to have when he lived with Sharon. Now that was what you could call a car, not like this piece of mediocrity. With the Beemer every drive was an experience; but there was nothing more to this heap than functionality – fine for getting you from A to B but driving it gave him absolutely zero pleasure. As he thought about the change in his circumstances – the loss of his home, his job, his son - a surge of anger threatened to envelop him. All because of that bitch. She had deserved every punch in the face, every swipe across the cheek, every teeth-shattering bang of the head against the wall. He was still convinced she had been fooling around. But that, apparently, was no defence. If only he had lived in Europe – where was it they had ‘Crimes of Passion’, France? He was sure he wouldn’t have received such rough treatment there.