Blood List

by Ali Carter

  “Hi Gee, how’s you this morning?” he said as he reached down to pick up the paper and eyed a now crowded front door.

  “I’m fine, but Molly told me she texted you at four a.m. You didn’t go out then did you?”

  “Yeah but nothing happened. He’s still there at work I take it?”

  “Mmm yeah… oh… can’t talk now,” she said suddenly in a hushed voice. “He leaves at six tonight,” she whispered. “Best try then – make sure you call me later.”

  “Okay, and don’t worry I’ll be fine, love you – bye.” Andrew sighed, envisaging another long and very boring evening – thank God it’s summer.

  The busy front entrance had brought a bouncy Beano and a harassed Peter in for the day, together with the news that Stella had broken her ankle over the weekend walking the dog and was holed up at home for the next few weeks. That really would make her mad, thought Andrew, if there was one thing Stella Gray couldn’t stand it was missing out on a major story, which to be fair, was as rare as hen’s teeth in Kirkdale.

  Jenny on the other hand appeared to be almost completely indifferent. The newest member of the Courier had been nigh on disinterested, complacent even when it came to talk of the latest murders. The possibility that Miles Peterson had been the last one to see Rachel before she died hadn’t seemed to provoke many questions either. Considering she was new to the area and would need to register with a GP, that seemed a little odd too. He eventually came to the conclusion that as she came from a large city outside the area, murders had probably been, if not a regular occurrence, still more frequent than somewhere like Kirkdale. Maybe recent village events didn’t seem so unusual to her. Didn’t answer the question about needing a GP though…

  By ten to six that evening Andrew was waiting for the distinctive silver Morgan to pull out of the surgery car park. He wasn’t disappointed. Shortly after five to, Miles exited the front door immaculately dressed and carrying a black case. He threw the bag into the passenger seat before opening the driver’s door and lowering himself into the sumptuous luxury that a local journalist could only ever dream about. The V6’s engine roared into life and slunk out of the car park onto the road and headed immediately in the direction of home. The old red Ford was soon on its tail but not too close, Andrew didn’t want to blow his cover and alert ‘Crippin’ he was on to him. That was of course assuming Miles was responsible for the recent spate of events.

  Twenty minutes later Andrew was back in the same place he’d occupied at four that morning and very annoyed he’d stupidly forgotten to stock up on some provisions for the night. He turned the radio on low and reached into the glove compartment for one of his many crime thrillers. They were mostly stored at the flat in pride of place, a fake oak bookcase which he intended one day be the real McCoy, with maybe one or two on his sofa for choice – but there was always one in the car for ‘emergencies’. Crime fiction was a long-held passion, no surprise then that he now found himself sat alone in his car in the bay of a quiet country lane waiting for a murder to be committed…

  An hour later a second silver and burgundy Morgan V6 came around the corner of Riverswood Lane and rolled into the concealed driveway of Willows Copse. Matching cars – how quaint, he thought. It was only after Morgan number two had killed its engine he realised he hadn’t taken a note of the number plate and now it was out of view. Damn! Miles could use either of them. Not a mistake Poirot or Marple would have made. Oh well – too late, he wasn’t about to risk creeping around their property until he was sure of his facts. He leant back against the stark reality of his ten-year-old torn Escort seat, and unfolded a marked page of an Inspector Wexford mystery. Well settled for the evening he soon became engrossed in Ruth Rendell’s ‘Some Lie & Some Die’, and seriously wished the Café Calisé wasn’t sited at the other end of town.

  It was 9.30pm before one of the Morgans slipped quietly beneath the Weeping Willow that graced the entrance of the Petersons’ home, and gently purred its way out into the lane. Andrew had been so engrossed with his book he’d almost missed it as it turned the corner only to pick up momentum when out of sight and on its way back into town.

  He flung the paperback onto the passenger seat, fired up the engine and rammed the gear box into second, then braked sharply as he passed their entrance to make a mental note of the ‘sibling’ Morgan’s reg. number. Driving one-handed, he kept a discreet distance behind Miles whilst he rummaged inside his door panel for a pad and pen, and at the same time watched the road. It took a couple of sweeps before he found a biro that worked. With the pad balanced on his leg he tentatively wrote down the memorized registration, surprised it wasn’t actually personalised – he’d imagined Miles would have something really sleazy like I.90.4.MLS with the bolts in the relevant places, or at the very least Doc 1! As it was he had a regular plate – Andrew felt a tad disappointed.

  The last of the late evening summer light had gone by the time the two cars hit the town square. Miles indicated left into Kirk Street and had rounded the next corner as Andrew left the square behind him. He was careful to hang back on each turn in case the Morgan came to a sudden stop in the following road. After a few minutes and a few more side turnings the pace began to slow and Andrew had to be extra vigilant. It soon became obvious Miles was looking for a particular address, but these were mainly very small shops off the high street, not residential homes. He stopped ahead of him and Andrew slowed to match, but unlike Miles, Andrew was not parked under a street lamp. He watched intently, heart pounding, not quite sure what his next move should be.

  Miles got out of his car and locked it. He could see him clearly now, tall and chicly dressed, and then watched closely as he carefully checked up and down the street before he disappeared down an alley. What was the check for then – witnesses? Andrew slid down his seat into the protective darkness of the Ford’s black interior. What should he do? Follow him? Check out his car? Stay put? What? For the first time that evening, or since the great ‘plan’ had been devised in Gino’s, Andrew realised he hadn’t got a clue what he was actually going to do when faced with step one in private detection. Annoyed with his indecisiveness, he reached forward, punched at a radio button and then fell back and began to drum his fingers on the edge of the seat.

  The local evening news drifted quietly over his head unheard. By the time he’d decided he should probably have followed Miles down the alley, his gaze was diverted upwards to a window light that had suddenly appeared on the alley side of the road. In a room over a rather old-fashioned dress shop, he could clearly see a man and woman entwined in each other’s arms. Clothing was being discarded urgently and passionately, and it was obvious they were snogging the face off each other completely unaware of the show they were putting on. Whoever she was he reasoned, they must’ve known each other for a while, somehow he couldn’t see Miles Peterson visiting a ‘working girl’. He wouldn’t need to for one thing, and it didn’t look like that kind of a clinch anyway. Not that he had any personal experience of working girls he reminded himself quickly…

  Andrew could see the signature blonde hair and floppy fringe very clearly as Miles faced the window that overlooked the street. All he could make out of the girl was a swathe of long dark hair that dropped clean down her naked back. When the young woman reluctantly broke away from her eager partner, she moved towards the window with her dress held up in front of her and began to pull awkwardly at the long cream curtains with one hand until he helped her yank them shut. In those few moments her face was lit, her river of straight black hair now fell loosely across her chest and what he could see of her ultra-slim figure looked thinner than ever. Andrew’s jaw dropped – with one arm stretched up to close the curtains in full illuminated view… stood Jenny Flood.

  He was still sat in shock with eyes on the window when the radio station kicked into his trance.

  “Tonight’s victim, the third, was found three miles outside Kirkdale in Dorrington Woods
behind the town’s exclusive sailing club on Dorrington Lake. She has yet to be identified. Locals are said to……” Andrew’s head shot towards the radio, his hand flew to the volume control and spun the dial.

  “……the police are still no closer to finding the killer of these young women, the first of which was found twelve days ago.”

  “Oh my God it’s not him!” He spoke the words out loud as he shot an incredulous glance back up at the window, genuinely surprised, but also somewhat relieved given Gina was at work with Miles every day.

  Thoughts began to swim around his head now. It’s not him – and another poor woman is dead. Why was he that surprised though – really? After all it was only their first suspect, somewhere to start, in reality it could be anyone. Andrew felt numb yet frustrated at the same time. Although Molly had no time-line on her visions he didn’t expect to hear of another death quite so soon. Oh Rachy… if only you could tell me who the killer is, who did this to you too…

  With a last glimpse at Jenny’s now darkened flat, he turned the ignition on, slipped the gear into first, and drove thoughtfully past the dress shop to head for home. “So… what now then Rachy?” he said to himself as he turned back into the high street. “What now? And more to the point – what and who is Jenny Flood… ?”

  THIRTEEN

  The following day the weather had lost some of its cloying heat almost overnight, although still uncomfortable it had become more bearable with the aid of a cool breeze.

  It was 6.00 p.m. when Jason heard the street door of the flat slam shut and Jenny’s footsteps run quickly up the stairs to the landing hall. Her key turned irritably in the lock as she swept into the small vestibule, marched through to the lounge and flung the jangling fob on the coffee table. Her brother looked up in surprise and switched off his attention from the late afternoon TV he’d only been half watching. His upward glance met with her jacket being ripped from her shoulders and thrown outside in onto the couch where she slumped heavily down beside it. Her arms were crossed, her eyes flashed and anger seethed from every pore – it was a look Jason had rarely, if ever, seen on his sister. The situation was quite unreal even for him as he waited for her to calm down.

  A whole two minutes passed as John Thaw and Kevin Whately gave chase along the roads of Oxford on another Inspector Morse re-run. Jason picked up the remote and clicked the off button.

  “So-o-o…”

  “I’m fine Jase… fine.” She sat pensively chewing the inside of her cheek and began to fiddle with the hem of her skirt, an old habit he recognised from childhood. She doesn’t look fine he thought, she looks upset, distinctly very upset… and extremely agitated.

  “Just had a bad day at work that’s all – I’ll get us some dinner.” She jumped up then as she sensed an impending tear. It welled, escaped, and slid silently into her long loose hair. Head down she walked quickly from the room. The chances of her eating anything was pretty much nil then, thought Jason, as he watched her go, it was obvious her anorexia was taking hold again – certainly judging by the last few days he’d spent there. Time to restore top dose meds – Jen needs me clear-headed if she’s got problems.

  Suddenly a familiar icy hand slithered swiftly through his guts and gripped hard. Its cold fingers stretched right around his stomach and alternately squeezed and churned. He sat open-mouthed at the space his sister had left when she’d walked through the doorway to the kitchen and the realization dawned. The reason she’d got her visiting brother to amuse himself in the evenings, either in or out depending on her want, was for one reason and one reason only. Jenny had met up with him again. She’d rekindled their relationship and walked right back into his emotional trap. That’s why Charlotte Peterson hadn’t been interested in his thieving when she’d caught him ransacking the surgery, and that’s why she’d grilled him so heavily as to Jenny’s whereabouts. It had started all over again.

  That day at the Courier had felt very strange. Andrew could neither concentrate on anything much, nor behave normally with the paper’s newest arrival since the previous evening’s revelations. Jenny had suddenly become a mystery within a mystery and Andrew didn’t like it all, there was enough to worry about without newcomers adding to the mix. It certainly wasn’t going to make things any easier, he knew that, and now he couldn’t share his and the girls’ plan with her either, which he may well have done in time as they’d got to know her better. Not now though. Instinctively he felt a barrier between them, but he obviously couldn’t disclose to her why he felt like that, how he knew about her relationship with Miles, because he’d have to explain his nocturnal activities. He hadn’t a clue what was going on. Not about her involvement, how deep it went, how long, or if anyone else knew. Come to that how the hell did she meet him so fast? She hadn’t been here five minutes!

  According to the vet Josie Kinkade, Miles had only just met and been with Rachel in the last fortnight. No – better not to disclose anything. Anyhow, with the latest murder being announced on the radio with Miles stood in Jenny’s lounge, it seemed highly unlikely he was the target. Well, not if Molly’s visions were accurate. The latest media reports were that the third body had been found unusually soon after death, even Miles couldn’t be that callous, or calm. The victim had been heard screaming in Dorrington Woods above the boating arena. An on-deck yachtsman had followed the direction of the yells, sailed back in, moored up and eventually found a horrendously mutilated woman barely hidden in the undergrowth. He’d called police on his mobile after rather messily honking up his lunch nearby… It was just unfortunate the killer had managed to slip away unnoticed yet again.

  So how did Miles meet Jenny – and when? Frowning, Andrew pushed the glass door of the leisure centre open with his left hand, hauled the kit bag over his right shoulder and walked thoughtfully down the corridor. A run around after work was just what he needed to dispel the tension, and an hour of squash was the best thing to thrash it out. There was a connection there somewhere he just knew it, and somehow he would find out what.

  As he turned the corner with his head scrambling, struggling to work out the seemingly unworkable, he careered straight into the back of a familiarly tall, blonde athletically-built man. As he turned around to face him, Andrew found himself looking directly into the eyes of Miles Peterson.

  “Hey steady on, the circuit track’s at the running club!” Miles laughed and bent down to pick up his dropped squash bag. There was no hint of recognition despite the fact that Andrew had met Gina from work a couple of times – or irritation at the collision. In fact the off-duty doctor was really quite friendly despite Andrew’s lack of attention. He hoped the initial look of shock that crossed his face was now gone and replaced by an apologetic smile.

  “Er – sorry – my fault, too much on my mind as usual.”

  “No probs,” said Miles, “look do you fancy a game? My partner won’t turn up for a half hour yet and I was just about to get in some practice shots – warm up a bit. He’s a little dynamo when he gets going and I’m getting thoroughly fed up with being beaten! I’m Miles by the way – Miles Peterson.” He held out his hand and just for a split-second Andrew hesitated before taking it to return a firm handshake. His hesitation went un-noticed because Miles wasn’t even looking at him now. He’d spotted a couple of young girls laughing and chatting as they walked up from the courts, freshly exerted sweat glistening on their spray-tanned bodies only very briefly kitted out. His eyes washed over them, and in particular studied their long – oh so long, legs and their eyes flashed back with appreciation as they returned his interest. They looked over their shoulders with wide smiles as they carried on excitedly up the corridor like two fiery gazelles.

  Andrew grabbed that time to make a swift decision.

  “Yeah, sure I could do with the extra practice too, I was just going to thrash a ball around for an hour myself. I’m Andrew Gale by the way.” He smiled openly at his unwitting new-found informant wh
ose attention had now returned. If he could get close to Miles he might be able to find out something. Even though he was now pretty sure he didn’t have anything to do with the murders, a glimmer of information would be preferable to blundering around in the dark. Apart from that, he wanted to find out what he was doing with Jenny, and more importantly, if he had any designs on Gina. It was pretty obvious he had the morals of an alley cat – and that was insulting the cat.

  The two men carried on down the corridor towards the squash courts and Andrew noticed Miles catch a quick glimpse of himself in the opposite wall mirror that flanked Court 1. Andrew’s eyes rolled – was this guy for real?

  Harry Longbridge stared at the plastic bag on his desk, as his left hand fished haplessly around in his pocket and his right stirred four teaspoons of sugar into tepid polystyrene hugged coffee. He gulped down the stale black liquid in one go as his thoughts hovered around Dorrington Woods, the associated boating arena and what had been found there. Evidence that pertained to the third murder now sat on his desk having been signed out of the security store.

  He growled when he realised he definitely was out of barley sugars and reached forward to whack at the intercom button with his free hand.

  “Denise, go get me some barley cubes will you? My head’s banging like a drum – I can’t think straight. Donaldson’s should still be open.” His long-suffering secretary glanced up at the glass partition and gave a tired half smile. When the hell was that man going to get himself a diabetes check? Never that’s when. Still, no point in trying to labour the obvious anymore, she’d spent the last five years since his transfer from London trying to do that. It hadn’t got her anywhere when he’d arrived, it still hadn’t and she guessed it never would. Denise headed for the door; a fifteen-minute leg stretch would be welcome anyway considering it looked like she’d be working late again.