Placing Sandra Nelson's photograph in the local newspapers resulted in four prank telephone calls, one false confession, twelve vague reports of sightings of her with men who did not match Jackson's description, and a complaint from the Inferno club that their name had been mentioned in the report and that this was 'bad for business'. Morse was, therefore, not in a good mood. He was sitting in his office two days after the articles had run, and they were still no closer to finding anything out. All of their leads had been exhausted – no one recalled seeing or hearing from Sandra Nelson after she had entered – and apparently left – the Inferno club.
Lewis was sitting at his desk, mindful of his boss's low mood, scanning through a stack of files that had been deposited on his desk that morning. It was probably a waste of time, but unlike Morse, who could sit and think all day, Lewis liked to keep busy. Besides it was only a matter of time before the Chief Inspector asked him…
"Lewis, what is it that you're reading so intently?"
The Sergeant glanced up quickly.
"Traffic warden reports, sir," he replied, quickly, "I noticed the other day that a couple of the cars parked in the lot at the back of the club had parking tickets – I thought I'd check through and see if there was anything interesting for tickets issued that night."
"And is there?" Morse asked, half-interested.
"Not really," Lewis admitted, "certainly no car registered to Jackson – not even a hire car that he could have taken out under a false name. There is one thing, though – there was a caravan parked there, with an overnight ticket – one of those camper-van type of things, you know, mobile home?"
"Yes," Morse leaned forward, "go on, Lewis."
"Well," Lewis hesitated, gathering his thoughts, "the warden noted it in her log, sir, because she thought, well, that it might be gypsies or something – she thought it was unusual to park a caravan in a car park and pay for a twelve hour ticket, when you could just as easily have gone to a nearby campsite… she noted that the vehicle was empty at 6pm, and that's when her shift ended."
"So?" Morse prompted him.
"Well, I remember seeing a camper-van in the car park when we visited the club the other day, sir," Lewis replied, "What if he's not using a car, or a boat, or a flat…"
"But a caravan," Morse finished, for him, "good thinking, Lewis… any details on the van?"
"I've asked for the plates to be run through the database," Lewis reported, "but I think it will come back as a hire vehicle. I've got an APB out on it as well, and there are a few lads from uniform going door-to-door in the area to find out if any of the local business owners have seen anything – it's gone now, sir."
"Long gone," Morse agreed, "Jackson must have been coming back to the van when you spotted him the other day, Lewis. He's on the defensive, probably lying low…"
Suddenly, the 'phone rang on Lewis's desk, and he snatched it up; "Lewis… aye… aye… got it… aye… fifteen minutes."
He hung up, and stood, reaching for his jacket.
"Not lying low, sir," he said, as Morse also got up, quickly, "they've found another body!"
~*~
"There's not much that I can tell you," Dr Russell was saying.
Morse was only half-listening. He had spent all afternoon standing on a path by a drainage ditch, freezing cold in the winter wind, while a team of forensics had worked on their latest grisly find. Back in the lab, in the early evening, he did not feel any warmer or happier about things.
"Just tell me what you can," he growled.
"Well," Russell eyed the victim, who was covered up by a sheet, "the number seven has been carved on to her back. We've got the usual strangulation, rape, mutilation, and binding of the wrists and ankles with cable ties… toxicology will probably show that she was drunk when she was killed. I found a silver and amethyst bracelet around her wrist, although the clasp was broken. It matches a description of one Sandra's aunt said she was wearing when she last saw her."
"All of which proves to the three of us that Jackson killed her, but does nothing to prove it to a jury," Morse growled, "anything else?"
"Well, I haven't done the autopsy yet," Russell pointed out, "you've got to give me a chance, Morse! All I can say is, it looked like there were minute traces of blood on the bracelet clasp, where it was broken – could be Sandra's, our victims', or even Jackson's. I've sent it to the labs with an urgent request for analysis. We've got Jackson's DNA on file."
"Here's hoping for a match," Morse said, apparently somewhat mollified by this, "anything else that you can tell us, for now?"
"Not at the moment," Russell replied, "come back tomorrow when I've had the chance to do the autopsy, will you?"
"Very well," Morse nodded, "thank you, doctor."
Russell watched them go, with a slight smile, before turning back to the sorry figure on the drawer in front of her.
"You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid," she murmured, to the corpse, "I'm afraid even the living need their sleep…"
She pushed the cold storage drawer closed, and, nodding to her lab assistants, was already removing her apron, gloves and scrubs as she left the morgue to go home.
~*~
That night, Morse went home, but did not sleep. Instead, he stretched out on the settee, brandy in hand, listening to some Beethoven, just for a change. He was not used to feeling so utterly outdone by a murderer – a man who had, so far, eluded Morse and killed seven women to date. He had, in essence, got away with it simply by being careful, elusive, and unpredictable. When he had last encountered Jackson over four years ago, the man had contented himself with killing once every year or so. His murderous intent had obviously increased while he had been in prison – to kill two victims in the space of a week.
Morning eventually came, and with it, the stiffness of having fallen asleep on his settee yet again. Morse groaned, hauled himself up, fixed himself a coffee, and tipped in a generous measure of brandy to get his brain working. He grabbed the morning papers and went in to work unusually early – he could do the crosswords at his desk while he waited for news to come in from the autopsy, or for inspiration to strike…
When he got to the station, he was almost amused at the surprised look he got from Lewis when he walked in just shy of 9am. The Sergeant recovered quickly, and got up to make the Chief Inspector a cup of tea.
"Morning, sir," he said, placing the mug on the desk, "there's no news yet – I don't think forensics are awake yet…"
"More fool them, Lewis," Morse replied, shaking out the first of his newspapers, "what's your excuse for being here so early?"
"Just couldn't sleep, sir," Lewis shrugged, "and our Val's terrified of letting the kids out of her sight, so she's keeping them off school, and they're going a bit stir-crazy… she won't leave the house…"
"Probably a wise decision," Morse muttered, "don't worry, Lewis – we'll get the bastard soon enough."
"Aye sir," Lewis replied, dutifully, but doubtfully.
Silence fell over the office, broken only by the rustle of Morse's newspaper as he read it, and Lewis's pen scribbling notes on pieces of paper as he dealt with the morning paperwork and signed off reports from the previous day.
Eventually, the telephone rang with the news that Dr Russell's preliminary autopsy report had arrived at the front desk by courier, so Morse dispatched Lewis to collect it. The Sergeant returned a few minutes later, already deeply engrossed in reading the report. He stood in front of Morse's desk as he finished his reading.
Morse waited a few minutes impatiently, and then demanded; "Well?"
"Nothing much, sir," Lewis sighed, "dental records have identified her – Emma Sheriff. Dr Russell says the mother is coming in from Coventry to identify her. She'd come here looking for work about two months ago, but it looks like she ended up on the streets – there's a note here about a record for prostitution."
"Forensics?" Morse asked.
"Sketchy," Lewis replied, handing over the file, "the blood on the bracelet is Jackson's – he must have cut himself on it when the catch broke as he took it off Sandra Nelson. Other than that, the body's immaculately clean. Dr Russell comments that he must wash them down thoroughly and scrape the nails clean."
"He learned a few tricks in prison, then," growled Morse, "at least we've finally got some evidence to tie him to these murders! A broken bracelet taken from one victim, placed on another, with his blood on it. He's slipped up, Lewis, and I want him now. Issue a warrant for his immediate arrest, and get his photo to every bar, beat bobby, reporter and street sweeper you can find. Get this bastard found!"
"Aye sir," Lewis nodded quickly, and was immediately on the 'phone, scrambling their resources.
The afternoon wore on in a constant haze of taking telephone calls, writing reports, and setting up a command hub in the office to co-ordinate the massive man hunt. Morse began to feel the satisfaction of the thrill of the chase – knowing he could finally pin the killings on Jackson, and the net was tightening around the killer. Suddenly, Lewis cut into his train of thought, hanging up a telephone call with an urgent message.
"Sir – a call just came in. They've found the camper-van!"
~*~