The Safe Word

by Karen Long

  Eleanor sipped her coffee and watched as an unhappy looking Whitefoot made his way through the traffic to join her in D’Angelo’s. She’d ordered him a coffee and a selection of pastries in an attempt to take the edge off his trip to the ME’s office. Looking at his expression she suspected it wouldn’t be enough.

  “How’d it go?” she asked breezily as Laurence slumped into the seat opposite her. “Will they help us?”

  Laurence stared at the peace offering and pushed it away. “Dr Hounslow’s fucking livid and rightly so.”

  “I’m sure but will she do it?” asked Eleanor trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  He nodded, “Matt persuaded her. Sue Cheung will bring the van tomorrow evening and set up the scene as if for real. There’s to be no digging or displacement of the grave site under any circumstances and I’ve given my word on that score,” he added firmly.

  Eleanor nodded in agreement.

  “Department protocol dictates that it would occur post six pm but she is adamant that the van be delivered back to the morgue before five am,” he reached for a pastry and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Great work partner,” she said.

  Laurence stared at her for a moment and then smiled. “It’s all good,” he said quietly, reaching for his coffee.

  Timms and Smith looked in disbelief at the small red circle drawn across an area of downtown covering no more than a ten mile radius. “You’re saying Lee Hughes is holed up somewhere in there? You’re sure?” asked Timms.

  “Not sure, no. But if, as we suspect, he used the car to kidnap both women and transport them to an unknown place where they were tortured and killed and then took the bodies to the Westex power station and Jubilee Park, he has to be working out of a very compact area. Things we don’t know are: where he collected Lydia Greystein from and whether he re-fuelled the Mercedes. Neither do we know whether he has his own vehicle or not. If not then he needs to be in biking or walking distance of Chen’s apartment complex. The interesting part is that this area…” he pointed to the east section of the circle, “…is what used to be the meat packing district. Now disused and awaiting gentrification.”

  “He needs a quiet place to torture the women and move them in and out without arousing suspicion, so our bet’s on this area,” added Mo.

  Smith scratched his head, “We know shit about this. If Hughes re-fuelled then this is all bullshit. He could be coming from over the river for all we know.”

  “But why pick two sites that are so close to each other? People stick to what they know. He knows this area, that’s why he chose Westex and Jubilee Park. He lives there,” said Wadesky.

  “Ok, we aint exactly drowning in leads so far,” said Timms. “Let’s get down there and have a look around. How many patrolmen we got?”

  “We’ve got four, and three after nine tonight. I’ve got them checking gas stations and canvassing Chen’s apartment block. Mo and me are gonna take a drive around the warehouse district. If we see anything we like we’ll call it in ok?” said Wadesky standing up and readjusting her clothing.

  “Christ, the pair of you should be on fucking mobility scooters,” quipped Timms appraising Wadesky and Mo.

  “Go fuck yourself Timms,” said his partner.

  Timms threw up his arms. “Jeez you invalids are sensitive.” He turned to Mo, “You think this exhumation crack is gonna work on Hughes, flush him out?”

  “Who knows but it’s as good an idea as we’ve got so far.”

  Eleanor read the article while Laurence drove slowly around the warehouse district.

  “How’d it read?” he asked.

  “Good,” she said decisively, folding the paper in two. “McAvoy’s used the general information package naming Hughes as our chief suspect but the headline advertises the exclusive. ‘The Sun learns from inside source that body of Carin Hughes to be exhumed as possible victim.’ Let’s hope it brings him out.”

  Laurence looked through the rain at the decaying buildings, surrounded by grid fences declaring, ‘Keep out. Unsafe’. “What are we looking for?”

  “Signs,” she replied.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes you see something that’s just not right. You can’t always see it at the time. Hours, days, months later you’ll be thinking of something entirely different but your unconscious mind is still working on what it’s seen and a light goes on. So, you look.”

  Laurence raised his eyebrows and carried on driving slowly through what had been the old meat packing district, so far he’d seen nothing more enlightening than litter-strewn walkways, smashed fascias and an old discarded amusement park.

  “Well, look at that!” said Wadesky, as she pulled the car over and stopped outside a small gothic church long since abandoned by the righteous and squeezed between two red-brick, cotton warehouses. The mournful windows and arched door gave the church an air of outrage. Mo smiled as he read the hand-painted sign nailed to the door. ‘Local Art and Crafts for Sale. Browsing Acceptable’.

  “You wanna wait here?” asked Wadesky.

  “Do I fuck!” he said gripping the roof bar to support his weight as he slid round in the seat and eased himself out.

  “If you’re gonna die do it home not on my watch do you hear me?” she said helping Mo to his feet.

  “Copy that,” he gasped.

  The church was freezing and the steady sound of dripping from the de-leaded roof added to the aura of melancholy. A small paraffin heater was fighting the odds in the middle of the aisle and two well-wrapped women were sitting round it both crocheting at breakneck speed. They stopped chatting and turned to smile at Wadesky and Mo.

  “You two look around,” one said waving a hand expansively. “None of the artists is here today but if you’re interested you come and tell us and we’ll help you. Wadesky smiled and glanced round at the tables laden with hand-knitted garments, jewellery made out of old watch parts and some attractive water colours depicting pastoral scenes, which could only have been copied from memory or books she thought despairingly. She moved on to the next display, which had a slightly more edgy subject matter. Nudes painted in vibrant blues and oranges stared aggressively from hand stretched canvases.

  “That’s my nephew’s work,” came a voice from behind them. “He went to the city university to study fine art,” she said proudly. “I’m Jenny Evans.” She smiled and then lowered her tone. “My friend,” she pointed to the second figure, “says you’re police?”

  Wadesky smiled and whispered back, “She’s right.”

  Jenny seemed pleased. “Margie knows a thing or two. So, are you here for a browse or do you want some information?”

  The two women had obviously not had a single customer for several days and insisted on making Mo and Wadesky a cup of strong tea and sharing a pack of biscuits. Two plastic chairs were found and arranged around the heater. “Fire away,” said Jenny enthusiastically. “Me and Margie have lived here since we were girls and have learned a few things.”

  “We’re looking for a man in his early thirties, an artist,” Wadesky said, her tongue stumbling over the word artist.

  Margie narrowed her eyes. “What sort of artist? You don’t like describing him as that, so what is he to you?”

  Mo looked at her carefully. “He’s a murderer.” Both women moved forward in the seats. “There’s a strong possibility that he sells his work to keep himself financially afloat.”

  “Hell, then he’s outta our league then,” Margie laughed. “Most we make is fifty bucks a month. Church doesn’t want to sell this place till the price is higher. They let it to us for twenty bucks a month and sit on their asset till some big company wants to rebuild this area and then they kick us out and demand a big pay out and let it get knocked down. So, why’d you think we’d know this murderer?”

  Mo shrugged. “His name’s Lee Hughes and his paintings are likely to represent women in death. Possibly wrapped in some sort of plastic sheet or bag?�
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  “Who the hell’d want to buy that?” asked Jenny horrified.

  “Oh, don’t be so frickin daft Jen. People have different tastes and weird stuff sells,” said Margie emphatically. “That don’t ring no bells with me…” She fell silent for a moment. “That aint true, a bell is ringin’.”

  “Go on,” said Jenny, excited.

  “This may be nothin’ but you’re clutching at straws aint ya?

  Mo nodded and sighed.

  “Well, three blocks on West Street there’s a small gallery. I say gallery but Bill, the guy who runs it does tattoos and sells a bit of jewellery and ‘other items’,” she raised her eyebrows knowingly. “He has some artwork for sale, most of it’s porn or comic type stuff. But that’s the type of place you might see stuff like that. Bill Gaynor’s his name and the shop’s called ‘Inked’.”

  Mo gratefully finished off his tea and stood up. “You’ve both been very helpful and that sounds like our next port of call. Thank you ladies.”

  ‘Inked’ was a small oasis of colour and glamour in an otherwise industrial grey desert. A bell tinkled as they stepped through the door and entered the shop.

  “What the fuck is that?” said Wadesky staring at the huge bird perched behind the counter and staring balefully at them.

  “This is Mortitia and she’s an American crow,” said a small man proudly as he emerged from a gloomy corner. He was the most intensely tattooed individual either detective had ever seen. His face and shaved head were hidden behind a covering of green tattooed feathers, made more incongruous by a set of heavy rimmed spectacles. “Born in 1853, she was the beloved pet of the local sheriff. He had her mounted and placed…”

  “Detectives Wadesky and Morris,” cut in Wadesky quickly, fearing that Bill intended to fill in the missing years in Mortitia’s life in detail. “Are you Bill Gaynor?”

  Bill’s expression changed to one of despair. His shoulders sagged and he let out a heavy sigh.

  “We need to ask you some questions,” said Mo.

  “Yeah…” Bill walked behind them and flipped the lock on the door. “Follow me.”

  “You think he’s gonna cuff himself for us?” giggled Wadesky quietly as they walked through a bead curtain down a narrow corridor and into the tattoo parlour complete with bed, inking equipment and walls decorated with hand-drawn images of tattoos. Bill indicated that they should pull out a chair from under a counter.

  “Mr Gaynor, before you lose the will to live let me assure you that at the current time we are not here to discuss your criminal activities, ok?” said Mo.

  Bill’s face twisted its way from despair to elation to suspicion in a matter of seconds.

  “However, that is not to say that we won’t be calling again,” Mo gave Bill a couple of seconds to understand the implications of the warning. “Do you understand what I’m saying Mr Gaynor?”

  “I think so…” came the hesitant reply.

  “We are looking for a man called Lee Hughes.”

  Bill remained nonplussed.

  “He’s an artist and is likely to be producing art that may have representations of women in death. Possibly wrapped in some sort of plastic film.”

  Suddenly Bill became animated. “Yes. I know who you mean. I’ve got a painting here. The first one was like that but the second one is…” He waggled a flattened palm and turned down the corners of his mouth. “Well, so-so.”

  “May we see it?” asked Wadesky.

  Bill climbed to his feet and headed off into the corridor, yelling back, “Down here. It’s in the back.”

  Mo and Wadesky followed him down a damp corridor, through an arch and into a room, which contained at least thirty canvases, all propped against the wall. A bare, low wattage bulb illuminated the dank space and it was difficult to make out any subject matter. Bill rummaged through the canvases, tutting with every inappropriate find. “There’s one here. I know I only sold the one… hang on… there!” he said triumphantly, sliding a dark frame from between several others and turning it to face Mo and Wadesky. “Is that what you mean? The first one had a woman hanging from a tree I think. Bit ‘specialist’ but someone liked it.”

  Wadesky and Mo put latex gloves on and took the canvas carefully from Bill. The canvas was dark, comprising three or four different shades of aquamarine. The woman’s face appeared to float beneath a watery surface. Her eyes were closed and her red lips the only other colour used. A disembodied hand reached across the surface of the water as trying to touch her. The subject matter, though strange was not particularly disturbing in itself but what did make Wadesky shudder was the expression on the dead face. It was a grimace. Authentic, brutal and unmistakable. This woman was in pain.

  “Hey, what’s happening?” said Bill, as he watched Wadesky turn and head out of the room with the painting.

  “We’re confiscating this as evidence,” responded Mo.

  “Evidence of what?” carped Bill.

  “Evidence of your stupidity. A man that’s selling drugs and illegal porn from his establishment should be thinking about how he can help his local police in the apprehension of a bigger fish,” hissed Mo. He watched as the colour drained from Bill’s face making the green feathers even brighter. “I’ll be needing your fingerprints and anyone else’s who may have come into contact with this masterpiece. Today! You’ll be expected before three pm got it?”

  Bill nodded unhappily.

  “When did this come into your possession?” he asked.

  “A couple of months ago. She brought in two, the first one sold immediately,” Bill replied.

  “She?” asked Mo, confused.

  “Yeah, a woman. Real hot. Name was K…Kate, Kaa. I can’t remember what it was.”

  “Cindy?” prompted Mo.

  Bill shrugged, “Maybe…nah, its gone.”

  Mo unfolded the sketch of Lee Hughes and handed it to him. “He look familiar?”

  Bill looked and shook his head, “Not seen him before.”

  “What did this woman look like?”

  “Tall, blonde hair, shapely. Great legs,” mused Bill.

  “Ok, I don’t have to remind you that any sightings of her, or contact, you should call me or anyone in homicide,” he handed him a card and turned to leave.

  “Hey, this guy. Did he murder a lot of people?” Bill asked hopefully. Mo ignored him, waiting for the inevitable.

  “’Cos that painting might be worth a lot of dough!”

  Mo smiled at the dependability of the human spirit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lee Hughes was angry and confused. He stared at the artist’s impression of him splashed across the front of the Herald and balled his fists with frustration. How was it possible that they could have worked out his identity? Could it have been Tracy? He wracked his brain trying to see where he’d messed up, scanning the front page, but it was very vague. He knew that his face was filthy and the shopkeeper elderly so had no fear that the pencil drawing could be in any way associated with him. He placed a carton of milk, a large bar of chocolate and the newspaper on the counter. As suspected the old man didn’t even meet his eye just took the note and handed over the change. Lee left the shop quickly and altered his direction. He needed to check that he could still access the car. Feeling weak, he tore huge sections of the chocolate off and gulped it down as he walked. He made his way across the disused rail line and into the lane that squeezed between the old print works and the recently renovated and refurbished cotton mill, which had been developed into three storeys of luxury flats complete with underground parking. Lee had spent several days searching for the right car to call his own. The keys had been left in the ignition, rather than on the rear wheel or inside the exhaust pipe and the owner had left a travel itinerary in the glove compartment. He was to be away for a month and, to Lee’s knowledge, there were no cameras or security personnel assigned to the car park.

  He didn’t need to investigate whether the car was still there having seen the unmarked
police car and the scene of crime van parked outside the building. For a moment he stared with disbelief at the two officers stepping out of the car. He knew instantly that the woman was Eleanor Raven. He couldn’t help but let out a gasp of pleasure. She was perfect and so beautiful; instantly he wanted her. He held his breath as she stood still and looked at the building. Her slim frame and long hair, twisted into a casual plait framed her high cheekbones and large eyes. A man, who he assumed was her partner, walked round from the driver’s side and handed her the keys. It was prescient; again Carin was solving each irritating problem as it arose. He would use her car. She would collect him and drive them both to their combined destiny. It was simple and elegant.

  As he moved quickly back across the tracks in the direction of his workshop, he realised he’d completely lost the gnawing sense of hunger he’d had before. He was going to throw away the uneaten bar but Carin told him not to be stupid; he had to keep his strength up. Smiling, he ate the bar thanking his luck that she was so sensible and tempered his impetuous nature but wasn’t that a muses’ task?

  Eleanor studied the front of the building, ignoring the cold wind that buffeted her. Laurence handed her the keys and waved to Manny, as he walked towards them. “He must live close to this building,” said Eleanor quietly, more to herself. This isn’t a building you’d target for this sort of crime.”

  “Maybe he knew the guy, Chen? Or had come in contact with him. Maybe…” Laurence considered, “…he had serviced his car and knew when he was away.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t think our guy works as such. If he needs to borrow a car then it’s most likely that he doesn’t own or have access to one. That says very low income and isolation to me. I think it extremely likely that he lives around here.”

  For a brief moment she shuddered.

  Laurence smiled. “Someone just walked over your grave?”

  “Hey Manny, what have we got?” asked Eleanor.