Down to Sleep

by Clare Revell

  Zander tucked his phone and notebook away. “If we need you, we know where to find you.”

  Isabel gratefully escaped into the fresh air. “So, now what?”

  “Now we track down a load of university students and hope they haven’t left town for the weekend yet. And find out what coven they belong to.”

  She pressed the button on the pedestrian crossing. “You seriously think we’ll find a coven here? It’s the twenty-first century. Things like that just don’t happen anymore.”

  Zander shuddered. “Actually, the Guv and Sarge broke one up a few years ago.”

  She paused as they crossed the road. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Pretty nasty case it was, too. Ended up with someone almost being burnt alive in a bonfire. We also need to call the Greater Manchester Police and get them to notify her parents.”

  “Do you ever get used to that?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll give you the same answer as the last time you asked me that. No.” He held open the door to the nick. “After you.”

  The desk sergeant looked up as they crossed the lobby. “DC Ellery—this is Mr. and Mrs. Rollin from Manchester. Their daughter is missing. They wanted to speak to you.”

  “I’m not missing persons—” Zander broke off. The same thought must have occurred to him the exact moment it did to Isabel. He turned. “Mr. Rollin, I’m DC Ellery. This is my partner, DC York. You wanted to speak to me about your daughter?”

  The man stood, his brown suit crumpled from the long journey. “Yes, our daughter Sally is missing. The university said we should speak to you. They wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  Faintly surprised by that, Zander indicated the door to the side of the main entrance. “Come this way. We’ll go into room one. Isabel, can you tell the Guv we’ll be up to brief him in a while?”

  Isabel nodded. “OK.” She crossed to the desk. “Can I use the phone?”

  “Sure. DI Holmes is extension four-seven-one.”

  “Thank you.” Isabel dialled and hoped the DI was in his office.

  “Holmes.”

  “Guv, it’s Isabel. We just got back and were on our way to brief you, but Sally Rollin’s parents are here to report her missing. Zander said to tell you we’ll be up in a while. He’s doing the notification and so on down here.”

  “OK. Piece of advice—take a tray of tea in with you.”

  “Tea?” She did a double take.

  “Trust me. You’ll need it. Oh, and the press have named our murderer. They’ve called him the Prayer Slayer after the way the bodies were left. So far there is no mention of the paintings, and I’d like to keep it that way. At least, for now. No doubt if he kills again, they’ll shorten it to the Slayer. Let Zander know.”

  ~*~

  Zander glanced up as the door opened. Mrs. Rollin was still sobbing. He wished he’d suggested Isabel make some tea or something, to give both Sally’s parents something to do with their hands, rather than wring or sob into them.

  Isabel came in with a tray of mugs. Bless her. She must have read his mind. She bumped the door closed with her hip. “Made some tea.”

  “Thank you. This is my partner, Isabel York.”

  Isabel set the tray on the desk and slid cups across to the couple. “Sugar is on the tray if you want it.”

  Mr. Rollin put several spoons of the white granules into his cup. “Are you sure it was our Sally?”

  “Her ID was found in her bag at her side, and several people have made a photo identification. We’ll need you to come to the morgue later and do an official one.”

  Mr. Rollin swallowed. “Was she…did he…?”

  Isabel sat beside Zander and grabbed the remaining cup off the tray. “No,” she said softly. “He didn’t hurt her that way. You said she was missing?”

  “She was meant to come home on Saturday evening, but she texted to say she’d missed the train and would come home on Sunday instead. She doesn’t have lectures on a Monday, and only one on a Tuesday.”

  Zander scribbled notes. “What time Saturday did she contact you?”

  “I have the message on my phone.” Trembling, Mr. Rollin pulled out his handset and scrolled to the message. “Here.”

  “Can I take a copy?” Zander asked. At this rate he’d have his phone memory full of crime photos. He really needed to dump them all onto his PC upstairs.

  “Sure.”

  Zander scrolled through the messages between Sally and her father noting she sounded like a regular kid with typical kid issues and problems.

  “She’s just a normal child. She loves singing. She and her sister spend hours watching musicals and singing along to them. All she wants is to teach kids to act and sing. She’s a good girl—she goes to church every week here, just like she does at home.”

  “Do you know which church?” Isabel asked.

  “Moor-something,” Mrs. Rollin managed. She picked up her tea and sipped it.

  “Moor Street Baptist?” Zander swigged from his own cup. Isabel had finally managed to make a drink that didn’t choke him.

  Mr. Rollin nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. She said several of the students went there.”

  “Did she drink much?” Zander asked.

  Mrs. Rollin bit her lip, her voice wavering. “N-no, never. She—she didn’t smoke either. Can we see her now?”

  “I’ll find out.” He stood. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.” He nodded to Isabel and headed to the door leading to the internal corridor, trusting her to follow him.

  Once in the corridor, he closed the door and frowned at his partner. “That doesn’t fit.” He rubbed his chin. “OK, you go and check out the bar, the Lao Órga. See if they recognise her, remember what she drank and so on. And when she was last in. I’ll check with the morgue and arrange for this formal ID.”

  Isabel nodded. “It does sound familiar in one respect though, even if the facts don’t add up. She’s a good girl who doesn’t drink or smoke. Almost as if she was killed for her one and only mistake. They also went to the same church, so maybe they knew each other.” She sighed. “Oh, and the Guv said to tell you the press have come up with a name for our murderer.”

  Zander wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Go on.”

  “They’ve dubbed him the Prayer Slayer. They’ve yet to make the link between the paintings and deaths though.”

  Zander clicked his tongue. That was the last thing they needed. Give the murderer a cute moniker and they just kept on killing. “Check out the bar. I’ll catch up with you later once I’ve made those calls.”

  12

  Isabel got the address for the Lao Órga from the phone book. Call her old fashioned, but sometimes the tried and trusted ways worked better than going straight to an Internet search engine for something. She scrawled a note to Zander and left it on his desk. Then she grabbed her bag, left the nick, and headed to the bus stop on the main road. It would take some time to bus to the other side of town, this excursion might take the rest of the day, but so be it.

  She pulled out her phone and sent Zander a text, just in case he didn’t see her note and decided to report her missing. He could always meet her there or whatever. The bus came and she climbed aboard. One good thing about her all-day ticket was that she could use the bus as many times as she wanted in a twenty-four-hour period.

  She sank into the one free seat, half way down the bus. Times like this she wished she did drive. Thankfully, those times were rare. She’d never learnt—not properly, not that she’d admitted that to anyone. The few lessons she’d had in her teens had been more than enough to convince her that she was far safer not driving. It was bad enough sitting in the front with Zander while he drove them everywhere.

  She watched the buildings go by while the sun blazed down outside. The air con on the bus wasn’t working. The bloke beside her desperately needed a shower. The bloke in front needed a haircut—the hair on the back of his neck made her skin crawl. And the baby behind her needed changing. Her head began to po
und.

  Unable to breathe, Isabel stood and rang the bell. She’d walk from here—only a couple of streets and the fresh air would be a marked improvement. The bus stopped, and she exited from one oven into another. It was even hotter if that were possible. The pavement was sticky beneath her feet, and she wished she’d brought a bottle of water with her.

  At least then she could take the pain meds to ward off the headache. The last thing she needed was it turning into a migraine.

  The first shop she passed was a newsagent. She nipped inside, grabbed a cold water from the fridge and paid for it. Standing outside she drained it quickly, taking two of her pills, and tossed the plastic bottle into the bin.

  Walking quickly, it didn’t take long to reach the bar on the corner of the next block. Music poured from the open door onto the street, the outside tables were packed. The sign over the door read Lao Órga with a picture of the star sign Taurus next to it.

  Isabel gazed at it. Taurus…was that the link they were looking for? She headed inside and over to the bar. She pulled out her warrant card. “Could I speak to the owner please?” She had to raise her voice and shout over the music.

  The bartender nodded. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Three minutes later, Isabel feared she’d never hear properly again.

  A thin bloke with bleached blond hair came over to her. “I’m Padraig O’Dowd, the owner of this fine establishment. How can I help you, officer?” he asked in a broad Irish accent.

  “DC York. Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?”

  “Here’s fine. I’ll turn the music down a little.”

  “Thank you.” Isabel tried not to sigh with obvious relief as the music lowered to a tolerable level. Which in a strange way was just as thumping.

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “I’m following up a lead in a murder investigation. I was wondering if you’d seen this girl.” She showed him the photo.

  “That’s Sally. She’s here most weekends with her mates. She was murdered?”

  “Yes, she was found yesterday. We’re trying to trace her last movements.”

  A frown crossed the bar owner’s face. “Such a shame. She was a sweet thing. She was in here on Saturday with a group of other girls. They stayed all evening. She got plastered. Most unlike her, actually. I put her in a taxi about eleven.”

  “Just her?”

  “Aye. The rest of her group left around half ten. She’d been chatting to a young man. Seemed very close, if you get my drift. They vanished for around twenty minutes. Then she came back alone. She wanted another drink, but she’d had enough. So, I took her car keys and called her a taxi.”

  Isabel wrote quickly. “What did this man look like?”

  “Tall, blond hair, older than her, beard—pretty good looking, actually.”

  “Do you have CCTV?”

  “Yes, both inside and outside.”

  “Can I have a copy of the tape? It’ll help in identifying the students and this bloke she was talking to.”

  “Sure. I’ll go do that now for you.” Padraig headed out the back.

  Isabel’s phone rang. “Hello.”

  “It’s Zander. Where are you?”

  She frowned a little at his irate tone. “I’m exactly where you told me to be. Checking out that bar. The Lao Órga.” She paused. “I left a note on your desk and sent you a text.”

  “OK. I’m on my way. Be there in fifteen or so. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t.” She hung up. Fifteen minutes? It had taken her more like forty on the bus.

  Padraig came back with a DVD. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” Isabel slid the case into her bag. “I’ll also need you to come down to the station and work with a sketch artist. How drunk was she?”

  “Very. She could hardly walk.”

  “Why keep serving her?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I took her keys, put her in a cab. This is a bar, missy. Most of my customers get drunk. At which point I confiscate the car keys and call them a taxi home. Yes, I serve alcohol, but I’m a responsible bar owner at the end of the day. I like me customers to keep coming back.” He paused. “It wasn’t the drink that killed her, was it?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No.” It probably hadn’t helped, but she wasn’t about to say as much.

  “Would you like her car keys? I’m guessing she’ll no’ be needing them anymore.”

  “Please.” Isabel fished in her pocket for one of the evidence bags Zander insisted she carry everywhere. “Can you put them in here?”

  Padraig dropped the keys into the clear plastic bag. “You sure I can’t get you a drink? It being a hot day and all.”

  “Water, please. I’m on duty.”

  “Do you want ice with that?” He turned his attention to the bottle and glass.

  “Please. What was Sally drinking on Saturday night?”

  “They all had the same. Shots and cocktails—usual stuff for students and young people on a night out.”

  “You didn’t notice how drunk she was getting?”

  “She never once ordered at the bar all evening. One of the others always got the rounds in. When she did buy her own drinks on other occasions, it was always non-alcoholic. If pushed, she’d have a mocktail—so it looked like she was drinking the same.” He slid her drink across the bar to her. “There you go. On the house.”

  “Thank you.” She sipped the cool liquid. “Did she come in here often?”

  “Most weekends. Sometimes midweek, as well. Always with her mates.”

  Zander slid onto the stool beside her. “Found you.”

  Padraig inclined his head. “You must be the lady’s partner.”

  Isabel grinned. “He certainly is. Detective Constable Zander Ellery, meet Padraig O’Dowd, owner of this fine establishment.”

  Zander raised an eyebrow.

  She rolled her eyes dramatically. “It’s water, and I’m just being polite.”

  Padraig laughed. “Full of Irish blarney that one.” He angled his head. “Have I seen you in here before, DC Ellery?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hmmm. You look kind of familiar, and I never forget a face.”

  Zander shook his head.

  “One thing I meant to ask,” Isabel said, dragging the topic back on point. “The name of the bar. I noticed your sign out the front looks like a yellow astrology sign.”

  “You’re very astute. Lao Órga means golden calf in Gaelic. So, we used the Taurus symbol on all our signage.”

  Isabel finished her drink. “Thank you. You’ve been really helpful. Could you come to the station tomorrow around ten to work with that sketch artist?”

  Padraig nodded. “Sure.”

  She slid off her bar stool. “Thank you.” She headed outside with Zander. “She left her car here. Actually, she was pretty well over the limit, so Mr. O’Dowd took away her car keys and called her a cab.”

  “That’s great. Do you have them?”

  She held up the evidence bag. “Right here.” She glanced around the car park and pressed the unlock button.

  A red sports car beeped, and the lights flashed. “Bit posh for a student,” she commented.

  Zander strode over to it. “Probably bought for her. No way a student could afford a car like that.”

  Isabel checked over the car with him. It yielded nothing but textbooks, notes, and a gym bag.

  “What taxi company did he call for her?” Zander looked at her.

  Her stomach dropped. “I didn’t ask. Sorry.”

  “No problem. I’ll go do that now. We’ll take the keys back to the nick and have someone come and collect her car from here.” He unlocked his car. “Get in. I won’t be a sec.”

  Annoyed for not having asked, Isabel locked Sally’s car and tossed the evidence bag into her handbag. She headed across to Zander’s car and perched on the seat, leaving the door open. She shoved a hand through her hair. Of all the stupid, rookie mistakes to make.


  Zander came back and opened the door on his side of the vehicle. “Let’s go check them out. He called the firm he always uses—Ace Cabs.”

  Isabel shut the door reluctantly as the car was like an oven. “Never heard of them.”

  Zander started the engine and whacked the air con on full blast. “I’ve used them a couple of times for airport runs. Not the cheapest in town by any means, but reliable.”

  ~*~

  Zander held out his phone as the taxi driver studied the photo. It had taken a while to track him down and even now the bloke wasn’t being particularly helpful. “Saturday night,” he repeated. “You picked her up from Lao Órga just after eleven.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember now. She threw up in the cab, so I made her get out and walk home.”

  Shock covered Isabel’s face. “Hang on—you left her? You made a vulnerable young woman walk home in the middle of the night?”

  The driver scowled. “Which part of ‘she threw up in my cab’ don’t you get? I had to clean it. It still stinks now. I dropped her on the corner of Kenton Ave and London Road.”

  “What time was this?” Zander asked.

  “Around half eleven. She OK? Not complaining is she? She’s lucky I’m not charging her myself.”

  “She’s dead,” Zander said, more harshly than he’d intended. “You were the last person to see her alive.”

  The cab driver raised his hands. “Hey, man. It’s company policy—no puking in the cabs or you get out. I did nothing wrong.” He tapped his fingers on his leg, obviously agitated. “There was a bloke walking his dog. I remember him ’cos he wore cowboy boots over his jeans. And not torn jeans either. There should be footage on the dash-cam.”

  “I’ll need a copy,” Zander told him.

  “I’ll get the boss to send one over later.”

  “Now would be better.” Zander was rapidly losing patience with the man. He didn’t care if it was company policy, one did not abandon anyone in the middle of town, especially a woman.

  Back in the car, the DVD from the cab company safely stashed in Isabel’s handbag, Zander sighed. He twisted in his seat, studying his partner. “That puts her near where the first victim lived. Or one of her addresses.”