Fitz glanced up from his desk. He ceased writing whatever report he’d been working on, removed his glasses, massaged his eyes and sat back.
“I’m pleased you could make it.”
“So am I,” said Gardener, glancing at the clock on the wall behind Fitz. Approaching five in the evening meant the case was nearly sixty-five hours old. It felt like sixty-five years. Reilly slipped in beside him and immediately headed for the coffee machine.
Gardener and his partner had been at it for nearly three solid days, investigating, chasing up witness reports, consulting with HOLMES, and chairing meetings, incident room debates, press conferences, and speaking to witnesses. So far they had yet to find anything.
They knew they were dealing with a serial killer, but not an ordinary one. He, or she, followed no pattern. Each victim was killed in a different way so that it appeared to be random, but Gardener knew, in the end, it wouldn’t be. That’s what was frustrating him. He simply couldn’t find the answer.
“So, what do we have in the machine today, Fitz?” Reilly asked.
“I’ve found something that I think is very important to your case,” he said to Gardener.
To Reilly, he said, “Vanilla Chai-spiced coffee.”
“Sounds good,” said Gardener. “You’d better pour three cups.”
The pathologist did as requested before taking a seat behind his desk. Gardener could tell the elderly man was tired. His frame was stooped, his complexion ashen, and the lines on his face definitely deeper. But he could understand why. Fitz worked as many hours as they had.
“Anything on the murders this morning that we might not expect?”
“That’s not why I called you. They were pretty straightforward. Frank Fisher had had his throat cut, and bled to death.”
“I take it from your findings that he was alive when it happened?” Gardener asked.
“Definitely. Alan Sargent’s death was also straightforward. He was savagely beaten and suffered a brain haemorrhage.”
“This here stuff you have in that there machine is the business,” said Reilly, savouring the sip he had taken.
“Did you listen to anything I just said?”
“Of course, but it was nothing new, was it? Here you are with your college education and all your years of training and letters after your name, and you’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I could have told you one of them died because his throat was cut, and the other one because he was beaten to death,” said Reilly, rising out of his seat. “I think I’ll just have
another cup. I can’t make up my mind whether it’s just good or fatally fucking awesome.”
“He’s a heathen,” said Fitz to Gardener.
“You need to tell me?” replied Gardener.
Reilly took his seat again. “So, come on, Fitz, tell us what we really want to hear.”
The pathologist consulted his computer. “I think I’ve found a pattern to your murders. I’ve been at this all day. It’s bugged me since we found Nicola Stapleton. It goes back around a hundred and fifty years.”
“Pardon?” said Gardener.
“I’ve found an incident that took place in Batley in 1865. It concerns a woman called Sarah Brooke. She was a widow, but she lived with her eighteen-year-old daughter called Hannah, who was a millhand.”
Gardener cringed inwardly. Fitz was famous for his history lectures; the SIO was sure that most were simply a means of passing the time and showing his greater knowledge. Having said that, Gardener had the greatest of respect for the man, and his lectures had helped them out on more than one occasion.
“Is this leading somewhere?”
“They lived in Hume Street.”
“And?”
“Seems that until August 1865, young Hannah was stepping out with a nineteen-year-old cloth finisher by the name of Eli Sykes. A month previous, however, she met a man called James Hurst from Wakefield at a feast in Dewsbury. On the 13th August, they were having tea together at his house. Sometime in the early evening they were at the front door when Sykes walked by. In a fit of jealousy he returned about ten o’clock when Hannah had gone home, informing Hurst that if he couldn’t have her, no one could.
“Sykes was a private in the West Yorkshire Volunteer Corps. Now this is the bit I wanted you to hear. On the 19th August, late in the evening – which compares with the date of your first murder – Sykes went to the Brooke house demanding to know if Hannah still wanted a relationship with him. She turned him down and fled into the confines of the house. He followed her and attacked her with the butt end of his gun.”