A Cut for a Cut (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  ‘Firstly, I’d like to ask you where you were on Friday evening between eight and nine o’clock.’

  ‘For real? What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘If you could simply answer the question, it would be helpful.’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Above the shop.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘I was alone.’

  ‘What about Saturday evening?’

  He pointed up to the flat again.

  ‘Did you go out?’

  ‘Didn’t feel like it.’

  ‘How about Monday morning, around five o’clock?’

  ‘In bed. Asleep. Alone.’ He sucked on the cigarette and cocked his head. ‘Does that help you?’

  ‘I guess you own a delivery van?’

  ‘I do. It’s out at the moment.’

  ‘Is it being repaired?’

  ‘No. Why would you think that?’ he said. ‘Oh, the oil stains. They’re not from the van. They’re from a motorbike. Bloody thing made a right mess.’

  ‘Your bike?’

  ‘No. It belongs to one of the blokes who works here – Henry Oldham.’

  ‘Is he around?’

  ‘He’s on holiday. Nipped off to Tenerife with some mates on Monday. He’ll be back in a week.’

  ‘Do you happen to know what make of bike it is?’

  He shrugged. ‘Honda, Suzuki. I don’t know. I’m not into bikes. You’ll have to ask Henry.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Doveridge.’ The village in question was about two kilometres away, east of Uttoxeter, almost on the Staffordshire/Derbyshire border.

  ‘Any idea where in Doveridge?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  He held the cigarette in between his thumb and finger and took another puff. ‘Is that it, then?’

  ‘Not quite. You look like you work out.’

  He guffawed. ‘Are you hitting on me? Want to feel my muscles?’

  ‘I’ll pass, thanks. Just wondered if you worked out locally?’

  ‘As it happens, I do. The leisure centre. They’ve got great classes and a decent gym. I go most weeks.’

  ‘You ever done any martial arts?’

  ‘I’ve done a bit of kick-boxing, yeah.’ He dropped the cigarette end. Smoke continued to spiral from it. ‘I’ve got customers to serve and it’s closing time soon, so I’d like to clean up the shop. Are we going to be much longer?’

  ‘I’ve one more question. Tilly Nugent. Have you seen her recently?’

  Tilly’s maiden name had the desired effect. His neck flushed scarlet. ‘I might have seen her a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Did you, or didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ he said. He ran broad fingers over his head. ‘Why are you asking me about Tilly?’

  ‘You and she were an item at one point, weren’t you?’

  This time his cheeks flamed. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Not much, actually. I caught sight of her walking past the shop and I nipped outside to chat to her. She couldn’t stop for long though. She was meeting her husband.’

  ‘You recognised her immediately?’

  ‘Erm, yes. She hadn’t changed much.’

  Kate didn’t believe him. Twenty years had passed since he’d last seen Tilly and although she hadn’t changed hugely, it was unlikely he’d catch a glimpse of her in the street and immediately know who she was. After all, he clearly didn’t recognise Kate. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his brow. ‘Okay. Well, thank you for your time.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘For now.’ Until she had good reason to request a warrant to search his flat, there was little point in pressing him further.

  He marched across to the gates, unlatched one and held it open. ‘It’d be better if you didn’t go back through the shop. I don’t want the customers to think I’m in any sort of bother. Gossip spreads quickly and I have a reputation to uphold.’

  Kate followed her nose back to where she’d parked her car. The streets and buildings in this part of town hadn’t transformed a huge amount, maybe there were different-coloured front doors or new window frames, but history was welded to each: the stuccoed White Hart Hotel with its rusticated quoins, a projecting porch and grand columns, which reminded Kate of a Greek temple; Lathropps Almshouses, in red brick with stone-framed windows and a four-centred arched doorway, above which was an inscribed plaque; timber-framed cottages and renovated dwellings still bearing stained glass etched with the original pub name, George & Dragon. The sense of familiarity was so strong she felt dragged back in time and understood why Tilly had experienced a similar effect when she’d visited. Kate moved aside to allow a woman with a double buggy to pass and dialled Tilly’s number. A noisy bus trundled past, the acrid fumes wrinkling her nose as she pressed the mobile to her ear to hear better.

  ‘Hi, Kate. Have you spoken to Wayne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he act as strangely with you?’

  ‘He didn’t recognise me and I didn’t tell him I’m your stepsister. I need to do more digging and, obviously, I shouldn’t discuss the details of the investigation with you.’

  ‘That’s understandable. I’ve tried but I can’t think of anybody else you should talk to.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see if I can get my hands on your old casefile, although I don’t want to arouse any suspicions. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Oh, I got a response from Ryan. The meet-up is on. I’m just sorting out what to wear.’

  ‘Tilly, can’t you wait a few days?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The investigation—’

  ‘Oh, come on! This is Ryan, I know him.’

  ‘You only know him from Facebook. There are dangerous people out there, pretending to be somebody they aren’t.’

  Tilly laughed. ‘It’s Ryan for certain. There’s no way a stranger would be able to chat about the stuff we’ve discussed. I’ll be careful. I don’t intend walking down any deserted streets or meeting up in remote locations. I avoid places like that. Besides, we’re meeting in a popular pub, so there’ll be plenty of people around.’

  ‘We’re hunting for a man who rapes and murders his victims. I’d rather you held off until we’ve got more information.’

  ‘And that could take months.’

  Kate sighed. She was fast losing this argument and had to question whether or not she’d be urging caution if the friend Tilly wanted to meet was a woman. She decided she wouldn’t.

  ‘Okay. I give up. Just promise me you’ll take extra care.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘And by the way, you’ll look great in anything.’

  She halted again by railings that ran the length of the pavement. A young cyclist was approaching and she beckoned them towards her. The teenager nodded thanks.

  ‘Sorry, Kate. The doorbell’s ringing. It’ll be Toby and his mum, coming to collect Daniel. I have to dash.’

  ‘What time are you seeing Ryan?’

  ‘At six thirty. I’d better get a wriggle on if I’m going to be on time.’

  ‘Have fun.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘And Tilly . . . Please take care.’

  ‘I always do.’

  The line went dead. Kate reached her car. A high-pitched siren wailed loudly, the signal that the level-crossing gates behind her would soon be closing. She was headed in the opposite direction, so she climbed in and pulled away. Wayne was a concern. He had no firm alibis for the times of the attacks and possibly had access to a motorbike. On top of everything, he knew and still had feelings for Tilly.

  The office was warm and smelt strongly of coffee. Emma was on her own, feet up on the desk. ‘Morgan and Jamie aren’t back yet, but the strip light is fixed. You got a minute?’

  ‘Give me two seconds. I need some info on a motorbike.’

  Felicity answered on the first ring. ‘I hope
whatever you’re going to ask me for isn’t going to take all night. I just rang Bev to say I was on my way home.’

  Kate explained she needed to find out what type of bike Henry Oldham owned.

  ‘Doveridge, you say? Right-ho. Leave it with me. I’ll put Rachid on it.’

  ‘Thanks, Felicity. I owe you – again.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m keeping a tally,’ Felicity replied, with a deep chuckle.

  Kate turned to Emma. ‘Okay, what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s not a problem, more a question. This came in earlier. A young woman, Daisy Weatherford, reported being attacked on her way home last night. She said a man struck her on the neck. She lost consciousness and came to a few metres away from where she was attacked, in some undergrowth. Apart from being hit, she doesn’t appear to have been injured or molested and nothing was stolen.’

  ‘That’s odd. Was it a vagus nerve strike?’

  ‘That’s why I’m flagging it up. I think it might have been.’

  Kate pressed her fingertips against her temples in thought. ‘It’s probably worth us talking to her. It might be the same assailant,’ she said, reaching for her ringing mobile. ‘DI Young. Is she? Okay, we’re on our way.’

  ‘Not another victim?’ asked Emma.

  ‘No. Olivia. The doctor says she can talk to us.’

  It was calmer at the hospital than the last time Kate had visited. There were no gurneys, or porters shunting patients in wheelchairs, or queues waiting to check in, only the occasional visitor and member of staff, heading in the opposite direction to them. A police officer sat on a plastic chair outside Olivia’s ward, and leapt to her feet when she saw Kate and Emma approaching.

  ‘Ma’am. I was instructed to wait for you and leave once I’d checked in with you. Olivia is still conscious and able to converse.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Kate. ‘Off you go.’ She didn’t think Olivia was in any danger from her attacker, who should, in theory, believe she was dead. The media office had deliberately kept news of this attack out of the press, so he had no way of knowing she had survived. Security was stringent enough, and entry not permitted unless it had been okayed by a member of the medical staff. She rustled into the protective clothing and, after pressing the entry buzzer, squirted fresh-smelling sanitiser onto her skin, rubbing it between her fingers and around her nails. Inside the ward, the lights had been dimmed and inside the nurses’ station to the left, voices murmured. The life support machines beeped as one.

  Olivia’s room was also softly lit. She was still attached to monitoring equipment, but her eyes were open. Her mother sat beside the bed, her hand covering her daughter’s.

  ‘Mrs Sandman,’ said Kate.

  ‘Call me Rebecca,’ she replied.

  ‘Rebecca, this is DS Emma Donaldson. Thank you for arranging for us to talk to Olivia.’

  ‘If it will help find whoever did this to her—’ She faltered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kate repeated. She moved to the opposite side of the bed.

  ‘Hi, Olivia. It’s good to see you looking better than the last time we spoke,’ said Kate. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad. They gave me painkillers.’

  ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’

  Rebecca interrupted with ‘The doctors said she wasn’t to get stressed.’

  ‘We won’t let that happen. We’ll stop whenever you want us to,’ Kate replied. ‘Olivia, are you able to remember anything at all about the man who attacked you?’

  ‘It’s quite hazy. I remember flashes but not everything.’

  Shock could well have forced her mind to shut out what happened. ‘That’s completely normal. Tell us what bits you can remember.’

  ‘He was strong,’ she began. ‘He had large hands. That’s all.’

  It was disappointingly little to go on. Kate continued. ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he wearing a mask?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know. I don’t remember his face. He was behind me. He put his hand over my face.’

  ‘Olivia, take your time. Anything you can tell us might help us. Anything.’

  She squeezed her eyes shut and a tiny tear leaked from the side. ‘His hands.’

  ‘What about his hands?’

  ‘A tattoo.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘A black heart with a red blood drop leaking from it.’

  ‘Which hand, Olivia?’

  There was a pause and her eyes opened again. ‘Right. The right hand.’ Her lips trembled.

  ‘Can you point out where on the hand?’

  She ran a finger between her thumb and index finger, traced an outline to her wrist. A sob escaped her lips.

  ‘You’re doing really well,’ said Kate. ‘Really well. Last time, you told me something important. You said, “You’re mine, forever”. Why did you tell me that?’

  ‘I heard him say it to me. He told me to lie still while he left me a message I’d never forget. At first, I thought he was writing on me or scratching me, then it stung and I could feel it bleeding and I realised he was cutting me with a blade. I begged him to stop and he warned me if I opened my mouth again or moved, he’d stab me in the heart. When he’d finished, he said, “You’re mine. Forever.” I’ve seen what he did to me—’ Her voice cracked and her eyes grew misty.

  ‘Hush, sweetheart. The doctors will fix that.’ Her mother’s face, drawn and long, exuded pain. Kate had seen a similar look on Ellen’s face when Tilly had told her about the attack on her.

  ‘Olivia, did he say anything else to you?’

  Two silvery tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I . . . can’t remember.’

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll stop there. You’ve been really helpful. Thank you. We’ll talk again when you next feel up to it.’ Rebecca got to her feet and stroked her daughter’s hair all the while, making more soothing sounds. Kate and Emma edged out of the room, into the corridor. They had something else to go on.

  ‘A black heart tattoo,’ said Emma, jerking the protective cap from her head, and raking a hand over her hair. It settled into its usual functional and tidy position.

  Kate was only half-listening. Her mind had immediately turned to Wayne Grimshaw, the butcher with tattooed arms. She’d pay him another personal visit. She pulled off the protective shoe covers and added them to the clothing in the waste basket and hot-footed down the white corridor, footsteps thudding gently in time with Emma’s. Rachid from the technical department rang before they’d left the building.

  ‘Hi, Kate. I’ve got a make and model on Henry Oldham’s motorbike. It’s a Honda CB 125 F.’ The same bike that had been identified. ‘I hope that’s good news.’

  ‘It could be, Rachid. Thanks for getting onto it so quickly.’

  ‘Any time.’

  Her pace increased. She had to speak to Wayne immediately and test out her theory that he used Henry’s bike as transport to and from the crime scenes, although there was now a better way of identifying him as the killer – a tattoo. She couldn’t tell Emma what she planned. To do so would bring Tilly into the investigation. As if she’d sensed Kate was thinking about her, a message alert pinged and she read Tilly’s message.

  All going well.

  Ryan’s really sweet.

  I won’t do anything stupid.

  ☺

  XX

  The doors swished open and they tumbled out into the night. Kate inhaled to remove the smell of the hospital. At least she didn’t have to worry about Tilly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The church clock struck the half-hour. It was gone chucking-out time at the pubs and a few people were strolling home. A trio of young men stood outside the kebab shop, eating from cardboard cartons. The heavy beat of a sound system grew as a customised Audi A4 came into view. It revved its engine close to the group and the driver gave a short blast on his horn.

  ‘Fuck off, Dizzy!’ shouted one of the
group, hurling a chip at the vehicle. The others jeered good-naturedly, and the driver made obscene gestures with his wrist before the car growled away. Laughter followed the departing vehicle and the men began walking away from Kate.

  It was a friendly town with a strong farming community, and many of the inhabitants had known each other all their lives. Friendships formed at local schools had lasted into and throughout adulthood, although those outsiders like Kate were kept at arm’s length, not ignored but never accepted in the same way. Tilly had been the exception, made welcome by almost everyone.

  She reached the end of the street and walked in the direction of the butcher’s shop, craning her neck to see if the lights were on in the flat above, indicating Wayne was still awake and up, a task made impossible thanks to the blinds at his windows. She rang the bell at the side entrance and waited.

  The Audi was back, circling the area with its music on full blast. By the time the boom, boom, boom of the beat had faded, Wayne was at the door. His face pushed through the gap, and he scowled.

  ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions about Henry Oldham’s bike.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Can you confirm it’s a Honda CB 125 F?’

  ‘I have literally no idea what that is. It’s simply a black motorbike to me.’

  ‘Never owned one?’

  ‘Me? No way!’ He lifted a cigarette to his mouth and sucked on it.

  ‘That’s an interesting tattoo,’ she said, inching forward.

  Smoke curled from his nostrils as he spoke. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one on your hand.’

  He held out his right hand and examined the scorpion with its lifted tail. ‘Yeah. It’s okay. I’ve got better ones on my back and chest.’

  ‘Got any hearts?’

  He extracted a microscopic piece of tobacco from between his lips with his other hand and laughed. She honed in on the movement. The tattoo on his left hand was a spider. ‘Hearts? You’re joking. I’m into skulls, lions, guns, macho stuff.’

  She’d discovered what she needed to. As disappointing as it seemed, Wayne wasn’t the perpetrator. ‘Has Henry got any tattoos?’