by Ali Carter
‘5th woman, 25 Farringdon Ave, Charlotte’s attending – 30 mins.’
His eyes widened; he shot a glance at Jenny and then at his watch.
“I have to go out Jenny, there’s been another murder. Charlotte Peterson’s attending – I… I take it you don’t want to come with me?”
The look on Jenny’s face in response to that question had troubled him all the way to Farringdon Avenue. It wasn’t the expression of a woman who was nervous of being in the same room as her lover’s wife; it was the expression of a woman who was totally petrified of her lover’s wife.
He tapped the steering wheel impatient for the lights to change in the centre of town as his eyes darted about insanely with a myriad of crazy thoughts. When they turned green he drove straight across and took the first left into Broad Street. Why was Jenny so uptight – no – wrong word; why was she absolutely totally and utterly terrified at the thought of even being in the same room as Charlotte Peterson? Just for a second he let himself consider his theory of a few weeks ago, that the serial killer was a woman. Might she actually be a woman he knew? The three of them had thrown that idea around before – and thrown it right out again…
Andrew realised his speed had gradually increased to fifty in a thirty zone with each crazy thought. When he pulled into Farringdon Avenue he slowed right down and looked for number twenty-five. As he searched, he recalled Molly’s last vision – long blonde hair, turquoise dress and the darker letter ‘S’ formed in the waves of her hair. He wondered how detailed the vision would turn out to be – if it was the same woman.
Harry Longbridge crouched beside the body of Susie Sarrandaire – or Danielle Mogg as he’d since discovered from some old bank statements in her office. The double name thing appeared to be innocent enough, borne out by some commercial photo shoots she’d been working on. There was also a message from her agent on the landline’s answering facility to say she’d won a part in some new drama which backed up the acting background. This girl had obviously been going places he thought as he glanced over at a glamorous photo on the mantelpiece. In it she was wearing a long black evening dress, her hair cascaded casually over her shoulders in waves.
A lightbulb moment flashed as he remembered the conversation with Molly Fields. He got up and walked out to the hall.
Joe Walker was searching the first floor to see if there’d been any disruption up there.
“Walker!” yelled Harry; “have you gone through those rooms yet?” Joe’s head appeared over the banisters;
“Yes sir, nothing unusual to report, in fact the whole of the upstairs looks fine – very clean and tidy actually. On the face of it there’s no evidence to suggest disruption at all – to any of the rooms.”
“Did you find any turquoise evening dresses amongst her clothing by any chance, in any of the bedrooms?” asked Longbridge.
“Well, I wasn’t really taking too much notice of the col–”
Harry was already halfway up the stairs and Joe straightened up as his boss rounded the corner post to the landing. This wasn’t important for evidence reasons, the Field girl had nearly been a victim herself and had the perfect alibi even if she’d had any prior knowledge of Miss Sarrandaire’s evening wear. No, this was a personal mission. Harry just wanted to prove to himself that all that vision nonsense was precisely that – nonsense.
He checked every garment in the main bedroom and quickly scanned the wardrobes in the others. Only one room had an overspill wardrobe with a woman’s items in it, the others were empty. Whilst there were a couple of turquoise tops, there were definitely no dresses that colour. If he was honest he was bloody relieved. He didn’t want to have to deal with the delusions of a would-be witness, and he definitely didn’t want to have to include it in a report to the CPS.
On his way back downstairs, he noticed the Gale lad through the hall window trying to persuade the duty PC to let him in to the house. After the dressing down Joe Walker had got last time, this young officer was having none of it. Harry smiled…
“It’s okay Thompson – let him in,” he said wearily, “I’ll take any rap.” Andrew looked surprised with the ease in which he’d gained entry to the latest murder scene. He was even more surprised when Harry put an arm across his shoulder and walked him down the hall.
The familiar smell of chloroform filled his nostrils with every step. Its use with Rachel, Josie and the other two women was obviously not coincidence then – it was the killer’s style – behaviour pattern.
Harry hesitated at the entrance to the living room, flashbulbs were going off, handles, switches and architraves dusted for prints and apart from Harry and a couple of uniforms, almost everyone appeared to be in white. The whole house was reminiscent of Kings Cross in a snowy rush hour.
“Do you know when it happened – when she was actually –?” Andrew broke off and turned sideways to let one of the larger SOCO team squeeze past him into the hall.
“No, we haven’t got the exact time of death yet, we’re still waiting for the doctor to pronounce life extinct. Not that there’s much doubt of that.” They exchanged a look – sombre acknowledgement of the obvious.
“The doc’s late, should’ve been here more than ten minutes ago. It was the cleaner that found the dead girl this morning – she went ballistic, known her since she was a kid apparently.” Harry paused for a moment then turned to face the younger man. He placed both hands on Andrew’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.
“You ready for this then?” Andrew faltered for a second, but realised that DCI Longbridge was finally accepting him ‘on board’ as it were. He didn’t know why he was, but he was grateful all the same. Andrew nodded, took a deep breath, and followed him into the room.
It wasn’t easy to look at the body. It brought back a horrific reminder of Rachel. Andrew turned away quickly, clearly upset, but he’d still noticed she was wearing jogging bottoms and a tee-shirt – no blue dress, turquoise or otherwise. Harry led him to a chair at the other end of the lounge.
“Do you know this one, son?”
“No – no I don’t, although, there is something vaguely familiar about her face.”
“She was an actress. TV commercials and bit parts mainly, although she had apparently just won a role in a new saga of some sort. You’ve probably seen her in one of her adverts I expect.”
“Ye-a-h – I remember now – shampoo or something? Not surprising with that hair. What was her name?”
“Sarrandaire, Susie Sarrandaire; real name Danielle Mogg – Sarrandaire was a stage name.”
“The ‘S’… in her hair…” Andrew murmured softly, eyes glazed. Harry thought about it then, he’d forgotten that part of Molly’s prediction. He shuddered inwardly; he wanted to forget about it now too, he wasn’t keen on all that ‘spooky stuff’. Blood and guts and tangible crime he could cope with, weird premonitions…
“I don’t suppose the dead woman… owns a long blue dress of any sort does she?” asked Andrew hesitantly.
“I suppose Miss Fields told you about her… ‘visions’ as well did she?” asked Harry, his voice labouring on the operative word.
“She’s been having them for ages to be honest;” admitted Andrew. “We… didn’t think it was something you’d want to be bothered with;” he finished, uncertain of his response to their withholding information – however unusual. There was a sharp intake of breath followed by a slow release;
“We want to be bothered about anything and everything in connection with a crime, but…” he paused… “I expect the lass meant well,” he conceded. “After all, she did have a pretty rough time of it herself. No, there’s no blue evening dress lad. Look Gale – if you want to mooch around for a media report, that’s fine, just don’t touch anything okay?” Andrew smiled and nodded his thanks.
They both walked back down the lounge towards the door to the hall, and despite the horror
of it, Andrew couldn’t avoid a glance at the dead girl as he passed again. That grotesque hole in her chest, the copious amounts of blood – he was sickened by it and knew he would never forget it. Could a woman really do that to another woman?
They reached the door and Andrew shook the police inspector’s hand.
“Thanks Harry.” The DCI raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Longbridge – Sir;” said Andrew apologetically. To lighten the moment, Harry pointed a forefinger at him in mock disapproval as a reminder of his status, then turned back to the sombre business of Susie Sarrandaire.
Andrew took a notebook and pen from his pocket and stepped back into the hall. He looked around him and made notes on the type of house, the crime scene etcetera to ensure he captured the accuracy for a reputable piece, and finished with a carefully angled picture so as not to include the body. Since all this had started, a junior had taken over Andrew’s sports column and Peter Gray had made him chief crime reporter whilst his wife Stella was still recuperating at home.
It was certainly a beautiful place, double fronted with another large room off the other side of the hallway. He nudged at a door already ajar that was next to the lounge. It was at the end of the hall opposite the front door. Most of the SOCO team that had been crawling all over the house were now congregated in the room where the body was. Still, he checked for any last stragglers on the stairs before he slipped into the kitchen, and closed the door behind him.
Andrew admired the smart designer units and top of the range electrical items. His eyes travelled along the shiny granite work tops and took in the Le Creuset storage jars and accessories. The little red heart-shaped ramekin dishes neatly stacked against the side of the fridge seemed grotesquely pertinent to the situation. Instantly ‘forgetting’ Longbridge’s request Andrew lifted the top one and turned it over to examine the base. Gina would love these he thought distractedly. Beneath it in the next dish down he saw a ticket of some sort, picked it up and turned it over. It was a dry cleaning ticket with Susie’s name and phone number on. It also had ‘Turquoise blue dress’ written across the top. Andrew glanced back at the door, took his chance and slipped it in his pocket. If that was for a long turquoise evening dress, then Harry would have to take Molly’s abilities seriously. It might be that one day she could help them. Just then he heard a new voice… and she was just outside the kitchen.
Andrew opened the door and moved back into the hall to find Charlotte Peterson had finally arrived. Only a few feet in front of him she studied his face closely and seemed shocked he was there at all. Andrew held her gaze until it was obvious the woman felt very uncomfortable, mumbled something about too many chiefs and began to walk straight towards the lounge until she suddenly stopped and appeared to check something in her bag.
The looks that passed between newspaper reporter Andrew Gale and GP Dr. Charlotte Peterson, did not go unnoticed by DCI Longbridge. What the hell was THAT all about, he thought completely baffled. More to the point – how did she know which room to head for…?
Once Andrew had left, Harry showed a flushed Charlotte into the lounge where the body was. He watched her work – watched her very carefully as she went about her business. It seemed professional, she answered his questions and issued a death certificate in the normal way, but there was something very odd about Dr. Peterson that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if she was partially familiar with the layout of that house – she was also extremely jumpy. For the first time in his life Harry felt unsure about another official at a crime scene, and he didn’t like that feeling. He wasn’t expecting it, he wasn’t used to it and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. One thing he was sure of though, he’d heard the expression ‘The eyes are windows to the soul’ – well right now Harry Longbridge wasn’t entirely sure this woman even had one of those.
THIRTY-ONE
Gina Rowlands… seethed Charlotte as she marched past two police officers on leaving the Sarrandaire house. A pair of raised eyebrows left in her wake went unnoticed, but Andrew Gale’s study of her in the hall most certainly had not.
She must have contacted that reporter boyfriend of hers after I left the surgery, she deduced acidly, well… we’ll see just how smart they both are when their wings have been clipped; as for the Flood boy and that barmaid…
Her hands gripped the steering wheel, stomach tight. Behind an increasingly mad glare a growing list of brightly coloured red names – a Blood List.
The Range Rover pulled away from the kerb with the eyes of Harry Longbridge bored into its rear window. Twitching the lounge curtain, he’d watched Charlotte stride down the drive in an unmistakable hurry just like last time at the Kinkade place – only faster he’d thought. As the vehicle’s bumper rounded the corner, the name Harold Shipman came to mind. Doctor Harold Shipman – and he didn’t want to acknowledge its presence.
There was nothing controlled about these murders, however. In the case of Shipman it was a control factor; control over life and death; the forging of wills for financial benefit in one or two instances – those were the key motives. There was nothing about Kirkdale’s serial killer to indicate either, the bodies of the young women found so far displayed an overly dramatic, overly staged final act. It was almost certainly the chloroform that had killed them. The gouged hole in the chest of each victim cradled a message – one that spoke volumes, echoed quite literally from the heart. That message screamed revenge – but for what?
Uncomfortable as it was, Harry had to consider the broadest, the most incongruous possibilities in his job – even if casting the net that wide brought in a medical fish.
Miles Peterson felt distinctly uneasy. He’d already cancelled the patient’s first appointment for a glucose check because the man had been late, he couldn’t do so again, particularly as he was waiting in the reception area.
His palms were slick with sweat, and his normally jovial chatty air had for the most part of that day completely deserted him. Whilst being entirely innocent of any wrongdoing with regard to the demise of Rachel Dern, or come to that the death of any of the women, Miles was still terrified his relationship with Rachel would be discovered. The guy was due in five minutes. What bothered him most were the media reports that had put Rachel’s time of death at about the same time he’d left her. As the days and weeks had gone on, with no police interviews requested at the surgery owing to Rachel’s practice being elsewhere, Miles had thought he wouldn’t be questioned. Now by sheer bad luck, the officer in charge of the case, who was on their patient list, needed a genuine appointment.
He reminded himself this was a patient that needed help, not a policeman asking to speak to him in any official capacity. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t make the most of it though, he reasoned. Miles opened the door to the reception area.
“Harry Longbridge?” he called. Harry put down a two-year-old Punch magazine, got up and followed him towards his office. As he did so he noticed Charlotte Peterson quietly close the last half inch gap of the door to her own. Once inside, she fished the Prozac out of her trouser pocket and winced as she swallowed two down dry…
“How can I help Mr. Longbridge?” said Miles with an overly bright smile. He gestured to Harry to take a seat as his voice broke a little before he sat back down himself.
Harry noticed Miles was sweating, he seemed quite agitated, in fact he was jumpy the entire appointment. With summer behind them and the considerable drop in temperature towards the end of September, visibly sweating seemed more than a little odd. Yet it wasn’t Miles he was actually interested in – it was that wife of his that had got Harry really rattled…
He was duly processed to the nurse’s office for a blood test, and although he could cope with any amount of other people’s escaping claret, was worse than useless when it came to his own. Needles and knives were both off his menu, so he wasn’t in the least surprised when help was required to sit upright again after it was all over. Harry felt decide
dly woozy, not helped by the thought of colleagues getting wind of his… challenges. Before he left he made damned sure he got an assurance from the nurse that what went on in the blood test room stayed in the blood test room. His result would be back in a few days…
Harry walked slowly out of what he’d long ago nicknamed Dracula’s Bay, with a cotton wad on his inner left elbow and arm at a right angle. For once though his thoughts didn’t linger over his long-time weakness, he knew he had to speak to Dr. Peterson female – but didn’t want to alert her to his suspicions, which to be fair still felt fairly outlandish. He also knew he couldn’t bring in a respected doctor for questioning over a collection of horrific murders when he had no concrete reason to do so. Just to run that thought around his flakey head was difficult enough, to actually follow it through with any action was another thing altogether.
At that moment Charlotte exited her office to call in her next patient, and their eyes met as Harry passed her door on his way back to reception. Just for a split second he saw a twitch of panic at the corner of one eye before her face broke into that tight controlled smile she always wore. Dr. Peterson female, dipped her head in acknowledgement, as Harry responded similarly then walked straight through reception and out of the building to the car park. Double bacon and egg rolls, doughnuts and coffee time he thought – can’t think with a light head and an empty stomach…
Andrew waited expectantly for the dry cleaning assistant to find the item that corresponded with the ticket he’d just handed over. She disappeared amongst numerous racks of hanging dresses to look for the correct one with the right name and contact details. When a long turquoise evening number was brought out and draped across the counter, he knew for sure that Molly was a very gifted girl indeed, and whether he liked it or not – Harry would shortly have to think so too.
