Blood List

by Ali Carter

  “Hello, Miss… err… ?”

  “Kinkade, Josie Kinkade. I’m a… was a close friend of Rachel Dern’s. I’ve been away for a few days, came back this morning – to this.” She threw a copy of the Courier on his desk. “I can’t believe it.” She bit back a tear, “I only saw her last week.” Andrew took in her broad Scottish burr, clear complexion and minimum make-up. “Rach and I spent the evening in the Carpenters Arms over by the river. That’s why I’ve come here today, soon as I heard, to tell you what I know. What I think I know anyway.” Andrew sat up, attentive now.

  “How do you mean…what you know?”

  “You know how she was… about… men? Well that evening she was so upset about the latest one that’d dumped her, we went out to drown her sorrows. Then this man walks across the bar and drops a note in her lap. It was his mobile number. Rachy was back on track the moment they locked eyes, then he sauntered off back to his table in the restaurant.”

  “What point are you making Josie?” asked Andrew. “Did Rachel see this man alone after that evening?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but it’s my guess she did. She said she was going to ring him, said he was too gorgeous not to. I told her to forget it that he was bound to be married or involved, but you know how she was, always craving love; craving attention. I had to go home to Glasgow the next day, on the Saturday. I’ve only just got back. I can’t go to the police with this.” Andrew’s eyebrows rose slightly. She continued on quickly. “I’ve got my reasons and I’m not prepared to go into them, so don’t ask.” He didn’t. “I was hoping you could do something. Rach often spoke of you lot here, her friends at work, she thought of everyone here as family you know. She didn’t have any of her own after her mum died.”

  Andrew looked Josie Kinkade straight in the eyes – “Finding Rachel’s killer is uppermost in my mind. I found her – feel I owe it to her.”

  “Oh God… I’d no idea!” Josie felt for the chair to her left, legs now buckled she made use of it. “It didn’t say anything in the report!” she exclaimed as she sat down grabbed the paper back off the desk and hastily scanned the two pages.

  “You won’t find it, it’s not there. I didn’t want to publicise it, didn’t want to… alert anyone to the fact that it was me who’d found her.” He automatically glanced around even though he knew was in a safe place. It was almost as if he felt the killer was already aware he was looking for them, and on their trail. “What did this guy look like; the one in the pub?”

  “Tall, fair, tanned, rich and with a cocky attitude even though he never actually said anything, just stood at the bar eyeing Rachel. He stared straight at her, like he held her in a trance or something, she was glued to it. Then he walked over, dropped the mobile number in her lap, walked back to the bar and picked his drinks up and disappeared to wherever his table was. It was pretty crowded, I didn’t see him again – that’s all I know. It just seems too much of a coincidence that by the Monday she was dead.”

  “I agree, but it’s not much to go on. I do have a friend in the Carpenters though. I’ll ask her if she noticed anything that night.” Josie nodded quickly, looked at her watch, stood up and thanked him for anything he could do. She gave him her mobile number, picked up the paper and left the building just as Jenny Flood came off her phone.

  “That was Molly. She said to tell you she’s had another dream.”

  EIGHT

  The discovery of the second body wasn’t just a shock to Harry Longbridge it was more like an intrusion. Like many people he’d relocated to the quiet Cumbrian village for exactly that reason. It was quiet. Two bodies in under a week with no leads was just bloody inconsiderate.

  The young woman had been found by a dog walker under the Bridge at Devil’s Drop, an historical beauty spot along the river that was popular with gundog owners who liked to give their dogs a swim. It was a Labrador that had sniffed this one out from a badly disguised hideout which was basically a few fallen branches roughly dragged across the body. It was almost as if the killer had wanted it to be found so little effort had been made to conceal it. It was obvious that the murder weapon was the same as before… an unknown one, and the gaping chest wound dared every one of the CID team to hold on to their lunch.

  He recognised the newspaper reporter at the scene immediately as the guy who’d found the first victim. He also realised that if this killer hadn’t ended his or her work with this poor woman, it was likely Andrew Gale was going to become a fixture in his life, certainly for a while. Harry Longbridge disliked newspaper reporters. They got in his way, complicated investigations and invariably hung around like a bad smell. All to gain a few team points with their bosses by trying to solve the crimes themselves. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was exactly the situation that faced him with Andrew Gale and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. Not only that, this young man had an extra axe to grind that would keep him beavering and digging away at this case until he’d found the murderer. No doubt he would put his own life at risk and cause Harry more trouble in the process. The first death had been one that was very close to this particular journalist, quite how close Harry had yet to discover, but he knew that somewhere along the line there was a connection with Mr. Gale. He may have been plagued with hypoglycaemia most of his life, but it hadn’t skewed his senses, and thirty years in the force had sharpened his nose for a mystery for sure.

  “Mr. Gale. We meet again. Strange that wherever I find dead bodies you are never very far behind.” Andrew ignored the implication and took out his notebook.

  “Just doing my job Detective Inspector,” said Andrew with an overly broad smile, “it’s the news that makes the world go round, without it the public would be ignorant of the facts.” Harry snorted. The amount of rubbish that found its way into most rags informed nobody of anything but hearsay, red herrings and sometimes downright lies. It also often completely fouled up some cases, murder cases in particular. Where the Crown Prosecution Service believed certain evidence could no longer be admitted in court, it caused the loss of many prosecutions, thus dangerous psychos walked free. No, Harry did not like the press.

  “But it appears that you are somewhat like a dog with a bone on this particular news story. You appear to find murder of particular interest – am I right Mr. Gale?”

  “When it affects my friends and colleagues – yes undoubtedly. You can’t blame me for wanting to find out the truth behind Rachel’s death.”

  “And what makes you think that this poor woman is linked to Ms. Dern’s unfortunate demise?” That bloody word again. Unfortunate! Andrew took a sharp intake of breath and held back an angry retort.

  “How many murders do you know of that have occurred in this town? I only know of one before Rachel and that was ten years ago. Even I can work out that this latest one must be connected. There could be a serial murderer out there. Did this girl die in the same way, and do you know who she is?”

  “Unfortunately for us……yes… she did, and no, we don’t know her identity as yet.” Andrew began scribbling.

  “So you are no nearer to discovering the murder weapon then?” He knew he’d touched a nerve.

  “No – look Mr. Gale, we’re too early on in our investigations to make any comment whatsoever about these murders. Understand? They are less than a week apart which in itself is difficult enough without you running around playing Sherlock, unless you have any further information to give me of course.” Andrew had actually spoken to Molly on the phone about her latest dream, he was now convinced this psychic… ‘thing’ she had going on was going to lead him to the killer eventually, but could hardly mention that to Longbridge. He’d think he was a complete nutter. Molly had described the woman in her dream as having long ginger hair of medium height and slim build, that she was lying on leafy soil near some kind of water… with a massive hole in her chest. As soon as Andrew had heard the unfamiliar police sirens screa
ming through town he’d jumped in his car and taken an educated guess as to where they were coming from. It hadn’t been difficult to follow the noise and find them all over Devil’s Drop.

  “No, I haven’t any more information for you, I wish I had.”

  As the paramedics stretchered the body away from the crime scene and up the bank towards a waiting ambulance, a muddy blood-spattered arm fell lifelessly from underneath the heavy grey blanket, thin strands of rich ginger waves flew freely in the breeze. Andrew’s eyes strayed to the dirty marmalade coloured hair where they remained a little too long. It was a gaze not missed by Harry Longbridge.

  The young reporter turned to walk back up the grassy incline towards the road and his car. He’d discovered what he needed to know, Molly was spot on – he just wished she could ‘see’ a bit more that would help him. The detective eyed his back as he climbed the slope.

  “Mr. Gale!” he called out, “you’re not thinking of going on holiday anywhere at the moment are you? Only I’d rather you didn’t if you wouldn’t mind.” Andrew stopped at the top by the roadside and hesitated for a moment before he turned round. He sighed heavily…

  “No-o-o- Mr. Longbridge,” came the tired reply, “I’m not going on holiday, or anywhere else for that matter.” He couldn’t resist a sarcastic smile before adding; “Are you?” Harry shoved a hand in his pocket, pulled out a paper bag full of barley cubes and popped one in his mouth. He sucked down hard, felt the sugar rush into his bloodstream and pushed it over to one side with his tongue.

  “It’s DCI Longbridge to you Mister Gale – I’ve earned my title!” He turned away sharply, strode back to his team and began barking orders.

  As Andrew drove down the narrow road past St. Peter’s, he barely registered the newish but still mud-splattered Range Rover coming up the hill towards him. He was well on down the road back into town when Charlotte Peterson took her foot off the accelerator and slowed slightly beside the seventeenth century church. A poker-hard expression hid privileged information of the previous evening’s events as she turned sideways to look down on to the scene beneath Ratcatchers Bridge. Her eyes quickly scanned the white uniforms, noticed they far outnumbered the blue ones, the suits too as SOCO gathered what evidence they could. As they carefully packed little plastic bags with the tiniest of clues, hands gloved, she was barely able to repress the laugh that tickled the back of her throat. She satisfied herself with a smug smile that crept to the corners of her mouth. There will be little to find down there boys, or anywhere else for that matter.

  The ambulance had pulled away from the kerb just as she’d arrived, and less than twenty seconds had passed since the Range Rover was in neutral. Now Charlotte engaged first, and the four by four roared its way further up the hill. As he heard the engine’s efforts, DCI Harry Longbridge turned aside from a colleague and briefly caught the Rover’s tailgate out of the corner of his eye before it disappeared around the back of the graveyard. Just for a nanosecond a flash of something hit a dim memory in the recess of his mind – then it was gone. Slowly he turned back to the SOCO officer and finished his conversation.

  As Charlotte drove round the back of the church and on down the lane, her left hand delved into her handbag to root for cigarettes. She had given up a few years ago since the move to Kirkdale where she’d decided that from then on everything in her life would be fresh. Clean, fresh and healthy. However, the shock of seeing Jenny at the country show had sent her straight back to a forty a day habit and she hated her for that too. It was so bad for the skin, and apart from anything else had made her look a complete idiot where Miles was concerned. She’d nagged him for years to give up and now she’d reverted to the disgusting habit herself. How he’d laughed when he found out. The memory of it made her grimace. She hated it when he poked fun at her.

  The knack of a packet retrieved one handed from an overly large, overly crowded handbag as she drove, still hadn’t left her. The hot car lighter popped just as she managed to extricate the cigarette from its box. Soon she felt the warm nicotine kick leap into her lungs. Her body relaxed but her head spun and she let up on the accelerator. The long dark hair and slim body of Jenny Flood swam in front of her eyes. It was of course all her fault that everything had turned out the way it had. It was always Jenny’s fault. It had been then and it was now. If only she hadn’t turned up again all this… messy business wouldn’t be necessary. She, Charlotte, would not have missed her class with Greta at the show the previous week, and she wouldn’t have caught Miles out with that… that bitch Rachel. Not that in some ways she wasn’t grateful to Jenny for that of course, but generally speaking it hadn’t been helpful. It caused the need for Charlotte to kill her – which naturally of course she had to do. The second woman hadn’t actually bedded her husband (well not that she knew of), but she’d caught her looking at him in the surgery once, in that… sexy flirty way. No patient should look at their doctor like that – look at her husband like that. It wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t right. Under the circumstances what else was there to be done? It had become distinctly obvious that if these women weren’t… removed, Miles would just succumb every time. It was utterly impossible for him to be faithful. Like most men, she thought as she inhaled and exhaled, Miles was simply incapable of keeping it in his trousers, so she, Charlotte, would remove all of the temptations that might stand in his way. The distinct flavour of her old favourite brand began to soothe her now. It probably wasn’t really his fault anyway; completely irrational now as ash got tapped into the tray, she was… helping him, helping them, their marriage – their future. Yes, she thought as she checked the rear-view mirror, pulled up outside her two o’clock home visit and yanked on the handbrake. She was preventing a marital breakdown. It was the most practical answer. She flipped down the visor mirror, checked her hair and lipstick and smiled a long slow smile – it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It never did. Contented, Charlotte stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and flipped her favourite car accessory back up into place. She reached over to the back to retrieve her doctor’s bag, heaved it through to the front, opened the door and jumped down from the high seat. There was a spring in her step as she swung the black case up the path of the elderly, very safe female patient’s cottage.

  ***

  NEW YORK

  Emily Stone leant back into soft beige calf leather. Her legs were crossed, her long fingernails exquisitely polished and manicured, her Ben de Lisi suit and Jimmy Choo shoes fitted her perfectly, but her patience was wearing thin.

  In her plush editor suite of McCarthy Stone’s New York office the phone on the desk in front of her hadn’t stopped ringing all day, but as far as she was concerned it might as well have remained silent. She checked her watch again and added five hours. Still time then. She stared across the chicly designed room, out of its huge panoramic windows and over the water to Brooklyn and beyond, as she twisted her white gold wedding band round and round her finger. Manhattan Island had been her home for nearly half her life, yet every time she saw the Hudson River it pulled her further out, towards the ocean, towards home. The knock at the door and entrance of Megan Calder dragged her mind back into the present.

  “Ms. Stone, I don’t want to interrupt, but you do have a board meeting in five.” Emily looked at the earnest face of the young PA and nodded curtly. She had been in her shoes once, taken orders from the upper echelons, but not for very long. It had been a prudent and quite cynical decision on her part to marry publishing giant Gareth Stone, but nonetheless it had been the right one. The marriage had been more successful than most in spite of everything.

  “Thank you, I’ll be there. Please ensure there is plenty of fresh ground Brazilian coffee, a variety of fruit juices, and that the handmade Swiss chocolates and cakes are available.”

  “Yes Ms. Stone, everything is ready.”

  Emily’s gaze reclaimed her memory through the giant window as Megan left the room, instinctively knowing
she’d been dismissed. It was then that the single long ring of the red metallic phone caught New York’s most famous crime editor off guard. Emily’s whole body twitched in anticipation as she leant forward to pick up the receiver…

  NINE

  Gino’s was buzzing. It was a warm, muggy evening and although everyone wore thin light clothing, they were grateful for the three large ceiling fans. Even with the door open it was still an overly hot night. Unfortunately the pavement in that part of town was not wide enough to take exterior tables like some of the other bars and restaurants, but it was still packed which proved the extent of its popularity. There was the usual happy friendly atmosphere it was known for, the reason it was their favourite watering hole after the Carpenters. Situated on the corner of Main Street, Gino’s had originally been a two-bedroom cottage, but like many other old buildings in town had been transformed into a thriving little bistro a few years ago. The original whitewashed walls and modern crimson window canopies worked well together.

  Andrew stepped inside and welcomed the breeze across his face. It would probably be cooler inside anyway he thought as he stood in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room until he spotted the girls in a far corner by a large cheese plant; its green stalk climbed the white brickwork and worked its way along the edge of the ceiling to create a leafy vineyard feel. He smiled when he saw that Gina had got her favourite spot as usual and there were already two bottles of wine and three glasses on the table. Two of the glasses were half full and Molly and Gina were well into the first bottle of Bordeaux. It took little more than four long strides to reach them. Much as he liked the place it did remind him of his ultra small flat. Still, it stocked the best selection of wines in the village and had a great reputation, so two out of three wasn’t bad.