Something doesn’t add up – and it’s up to Detective Ferguson to track down a serial killer
BY GLYNIS SCRIVENS
Who’ll be next?” asked Detective Liz Ferguson. The station was abuzz with news of last night’s murder. A year to the day since last’s year’s killing.
“So, you think it’s the Brookfield Killer?” asked her companion.
“Well, it’s the same date, isn’t it? Of course, it may be coincidence, but…”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” answered Sergeant Peterson.
Last year the Brookfield Killer had struck on two consecutive nights. Would this become an annual nightmare in this otherwise quiet village? Yes, according to the local newspaper.
If Ferguson was right, tonight would be someone’s last. Unless the detectives could discover the culprit. There wasn’t much time. It was already 4pm.
Last night the porter at the railway station had met a grisly end, pushed onto the tracks in the path of an oncoming train. Never mind the fact that complaints had recently been made about his behaviour towards young female passengers. A human life held value and must be respected. And the community needed to feel safe.
Detective Ferguson walked into the interview room with Sergeant Peterson. Maybe this time they’d be lucky. There’d been a witness. Sergeant Peterson had been able to track down a seventy-year-old woman.
Her first impression of Elaine Stewart was of a woman in full command of her faculties. Clear blue eyes met hers through steel-framed glasses. She looked more like sixty than seventy in her jeans and white linen shirt. Someone who’d do well in the witness box, Detective Ferguson couldn’t help thinking. But what exactly had she seen?
Turning on the recording, she began.
“Could you please tell me what happened last night?”
“I thought I was the only person on the platform,” Elaine said. “Apart from the porter, of course.”
“What time was this?”
“Twenty past ten.”
“And why were you there?”
The woman looked taken aback.
“I’d caught the evening train from London,” she said. “I was deciding whether to walk home, catch a taxi or wait for a bus.”
“And that took forty minutes?” Sergeant Peterson leaned forward to ask the question.
Liz could feel the tension in his body. Surely he didn’t suspect her.
Elaine Stewart adjusted her glasses.
“My husband’s an invalid. I didn’t want to disturb him. I suppose I dithered. Is that a crime?”
“Of course not,” Detective Fergu
