Jane Peterson sometime in 1981. Not sure what happened, but I suspect Alfie Peterson found out because some time afterwards, Robert Chilvers disappeared from the town altogether.”
“Is this our man?” Reilly asked.
“A bit too much to be a coincidence,” added Gates.
“And if it is him, was it the start of his killing spree?” asked Anderson.
Gardener glanced at Benson. “Paul, I’d like you in Whitby first thing in the morning. Call the station tonight, inform them of what you’re up to, and see if someone can have the information you need as soon as possible?”
Benson nodded.
“Do you have anything more on that story?” Gardener asked Potter.
“No, but as I said, it’s a long time ago.”
“What about all the victims named Jane that have either died or disappeared in mysterious circumstances?”
“That’s another big task,” said Potter, consulting his paperwork. “In the last thirty-five years, we currently have a list of two thousand names.”
“He can’t possibly be responsible for all those,” said Reilly.
Gardener spread his arms and leaned on the table in front of him. “Okay, here’s something that might help. Go back to HOLMES and see if you can narrow it down further by adding this information in. I want you to look only at the names of the women who have disappeared or died, who had a partner or a husband, whose initials were RC. I also want you to include unsolved crimes, specifically deaths.”
Potter nodded. “Want me to start now?”
“No time like the present.” Gardener rubbed his hands down his face. The whole thing was a nightmare without end. It was beginning to feel like they had come up against the world’s most prolific serial killer. His attention was diverted when the door opened and Fitz strolled in.
“Seems you have a habit of demanding my attention at odd times, gentlemen.”
“Well, if we can’t have our tea, we’re gonna make damn sure you don’t get yours,” retorted Reilly, smiling.
“I wouldn’t put money on it.” The Home Office pathologist faced the SIO. “So, what’s so urgent that you need me here immediately?”
“Did I say immediately?” Gardener asked Cragg.
“No, I did.”
The rest of the team laughed, which was music to Gardener’s ears. “Patrick?” Gardener asked. “It’s your show, you can take the floor.”
“Very strictly, Patrick.”
Another roar broke the relative quiet.
“Oh, very funny.” Patrick explained his theory regarding the guitar.
Fitz stood with his arms folded, and Gardener could hear the cogs turning. “I don’t see why not,” he replied at last. “It’s big enough and heavy enough. It certainly could cause the damage we’ve seen. What made you think of that, young man?”
“Something Terry Jones said, sir. I wondered what could warp the neck of the guitar, and he said maybe it had taken a hard knock somewhere.”
“If the neck was warped wouldn’t it be out of tune?” Reilly asked.
“Well, Terry indicated that it was okay at the top end where the machine heads were, but the further up the neck you travelled, the more out of tune it became.”
“Wouldn’t Robbie Carter have noticed this?” Gardener asked.
“Probably,” said Patrick Edwards. “But maybe he was clever enough to keep playing chords at the top end.”
“Fitz, can you demonstrate action for us?”