Their Lost Daughters (DI Jackman & DS Evans #2)(83)

‘It lies beneath the ground and is approached from an old Victorian tunnel from the marsh. There was no one else out on the fen at night, as I told your detectives, and I’m sorry I lied to them. I was the one out there.’

Jackman looked at Philip Groves and tried to find one thing that told him he was sitting opposite a ruthless killer. There was nothing.

‘I took the girls along the passage on a trolley, then into the ward, and so to bed.’

Jackman saw the confusion on Marie’s face. ‘Did you . . . did you sing as you went?’

‘Sometimes. I prepared the place years ago. Windrush was empty for some time before it was won in that wager. I used to wander around there a lot. That was when I found the tunnel from the house, and I found all those old beds and lockers too. They were ready to be dumped, so I took them down the tunnel and set up the ward. Sadly I had to seal it up when it was finished, in case the new owner stumbled across it.’

Jackman glanced at Marie. Groves knew far too much. So why did he not feel elated at this confession? The murderer had just walked in through the front doors and practically prostrated himself before them.

‘We need to take your fingerprints, Mr Groves, and a sample of DNA, if you agree?’

‘I have no objection.’

‘You also have the right to a solicitor. You can either request your own, or we can get the duty solicitor.’

Groves stared down at the table. ‘I don’t need one, Detective Inspector.’

‘It’s your choice, sir, but I really would advise it.’ Jackman looked at Groves, and although he still could not see the murderer, he could see the man who had placed those vases of flowers beside the beds. ‘What was on the bedside lockers, Mr Groves?’ he asked casually.

Groves gave a little sigh and looked at Jackman with the saddest of grey eyes. ‘I know what you are talking about. Yes, I took them fresh flowers. Check my garden, Detective. The plants will match the ones in the little vases.’

‘One last question. The first victim. Her name was Fleur. What can you tell us about her?’

Philip Groves sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t wish to say any more.’





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘No, no, no, no! This isn’t right!’ Jackman paced his office.

Professor Henry O’Byrne followed him with his eyes. ‘But what about his statement? It’s utterly damning.’

Jackman knew that, but still the alarm bells jangled in his head. ‘He knew all about the underground chamber, yes. He’d obviously been in it, yes. I can’t argue with that because his prints match the ones that Rory found. But Philip Groves never drugged, assaulted and brutally murdered those girls. He’s protecting someone.’

‘Maybe, or maybe your young detective’s theory of a multiple personality is right, and he’s protecting his other self.’ The professor scratched his head. ‘At least he’s agreed to let me sit in on the next interview. Maybe I can shed a little light on this.’

Marie leaned against the wall, apparently lost in thought. Then she said, ‘Jan Wallace, the forensic archaeologist, said that whoever placed Fleur’s skeleton on that hospital bed had an expert knowledge of anatomy.’

‘Like a veterinary surgeon,’ Henry O’Byrne murmured.

‘Exactly. Like a vet.’

Jackman threw up his hands. ‘Maybe it was him! But it doesn’t mean he killed her.’ He resumed his pacing. Could Groves have killed them? The question wove itself around his mind like a cat’s cradle.

‘You’re thinking that a man who heals tiny kittens and sick puppies couldn’t kill, aren’t you?’ said the professor.

‘Maybe.’

‘Just remember that he also sticks needles full of lethal drugs into them and watches them die.’ The professor’s eyes never left Jackman. ‘He slides cold steel beneath their soft furry skin and sees their warm blood flow. Don’t underestimate Philip Groves, DI Jackman. It might be a big mistake.’

Jackman heaved a loud sigh. ‘I know, I know. I just wish I could get my head round all this. And I still believe that Fleur is the key, if only we could identify her.’

‘I totally agree,’ said Marie, leaning over Jackman’s desk and taking a sheet of blank paper from his printer tray. She pulled a pen from her pocket and wrote Fleur’s name in the centre of the paper.

‘Brainstorming,’ said the professor. ‘Good idea.’

‘I was just thinking about direct connections.’ Marie drew an arrow from Fleur to the name Elizabeth Sewell. ‘She said Rosie reminded her of Fleur.’ Marie wrote the name Philip Groves, and connected him to both Fleur and Elizabeth. The name Benedict Broome followed, then Micah Lee. And then Toby Tanner, and Asher Leyton. Soon the paper was full of names and interconnecting lines.

‘And this is helpful?’ asked Jackman acidly.

Marie pushed the paper away from her. ‘Probably not. I’m going to find Max and Rosie. See if they’ve had any luck.’

As Marie left, the psychologist pulled the scribbled sheet towards him and slowly ran his finger over the maze of lines. ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .’ He tilted his head. ‘I wonder what Sir Walter Scott would have made of this little tangle. None of them, and yet all of them, woven together.’