DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘The partial VIN Mr Stott gave us matches the red Ford Focus registered in Davis’s name,’ Tunstall said. ‘I’ve sent it to Traffic.’ He passed Rickman a pink slip and Rickman copied the details onto the whiteboard.

  ‘I’ve distributed photos of Davis to Traffic and House-to-House,’ Hart said.

  ‘We need to know what happened in the hours before Jasmine was found,’ Rickman said. ‘What about this Kim — Jasmine’s friend?’

  A collective shaking of heads. ‘Sod all,’ Foster said.

  ‘Okay, let’s come back to that.’ Focusing on the failures of the day wouldn’t help morale. ‘What do we know about Jasmine that we didn’t know this morning?’

  ‘She was claiming benefits,’ Hart said. ‘She went into rehab just after she discovered she was pregnant. After that, she was put under a testing order. She’s been having regular blood and urine checks since — seems she was clear every time.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her rehab counsellor?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘She was registered with the drug dependence unit in Rodney Street,’ Hart said. ‘Her counsellor said he’s never known anyone more determined to kick the habit — said she didn’t want her baby born a junkie. She even refused pethidine at the birth.’

  ‘What about support groups?’

  They looked at Hart. ‘She told her counsellor she had all the support she needed from a friend.’

  ‘The mysterious Kim, no doubt,’ Rickman said, with mounting frustration. ‘Is that for me?’ He indicated the thumb drive on Hart’s table.

  ‘Tech Support has cleaned the video up a bit,’ she said, handing him a copy of each. ‘And I’ve sent a few clips to the press office for release to the media — the duty manager wants you to approve them before they go out.’

  Rickman took it with a nod of thanks. She wouldn’t thank him for pointing it out, but for every line of inquiry most officers could get through in a day, Hart could complete half a dozen more, thinking of the off-beat questions, as well as the obvious ones and following them through quickly and thoroughly.

  ‘And they got this from the reflection in the window.’ Hart handed him a printout and Rickman held it up for Foster to get a good look.

  ‘That’s Davis all right,’ Foster said.

  ‘What about neighbours?’ he asked Tunstall. ‘Mum with a new baby — she’s bound to’ve made some friends.’

  ‘I talked to the bobbies canvassing door-to-door,’ Tunstall said. ‘Only the old feller across the road seems to know owt about her. She hadn’t been in the house above a few weeks.’

  Rickman felt a jolt like two-forty volts of electricity. ‘The house,’ he said.

  Foster looked at him like he’d lost touch with reality. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You noticed the “SOLD” sign outside?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘Jasmine is — or was — an ex-addict, living on benefits. Where did she get the money to buy a house?’

  ‘Not from Mark Davis, that’s for certain.’ Foster finally caught up with Rickman’s train of thought.

  ‘New boyfriend?’ Tunstall offered.

  Rickman snatched up the nearest phone and dialled the Comms Room. ‘DCI Rickman,’ he said. ‘Who’s on duty at the Jasmine Elliott scene?’ He listened. ‘Patch me through.’

  The constable on duty gave his name and number.

  ‘Take a look at the “SOLD” sign in the front garden,’ Rickman said. ‘What’s the name of the estate agent?’ He pulled a notepad to him as the constable gave him the name. ‘Phone number?’ He scribbled a note. ‘Thanks.’

  He disconnected, then redialled, checking the clock. It was nearly five p.m. The phone rang three, four times. On the fifth ring he was ready to hang up when he heard a woman’s voice telling him the office was closed. It sounded too irritated to be a recorded message, and Rickman spoke over her advice to call back tomorrow.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Rickman, Merseyside Police,’ he said. ‘Who’s dealing with the sale of fifteen Olive Close?’

  ‘We’re just closing,’ she said, sounding offended by his persistence.

  ‘So let’s do this quickly and then you can go home.’

  She huffed. ‘What area?’

  ‘Wavertree.’

  ‘That would be Mr Austin. But he’s just out the door . . .’

  ‘Call him back,’ Rickman said.

  ‘I can’t possibly—’

  ‘Call him back, or we’ll have to show up at his house and drag him all the way to the office again — and you know what traffic is like this time of night.’

  The woman seemed to debate the relative inconvenience of the two options for a moment, then a loud clatter signalled that she had put the receiver down on a desk with more force than was strictly necessary. A few moments later, Mr Austin himself was on the line.

  ‘You want to know about Olive Close?’ His voice, only slightly accented, was warm and energetic — a good salesman’s voice. ‘I sold the property six weeks ago.’

  ‘To Jasmine Elliott,’ Rickman said. ‘I know. But how did she pay for it? A mortgage? A loan?’

  ‘The name isn’t familiar . . .’ Austin hesitated. ‘May I ask what’s this in relation to?’

  ‘Miss Elliott was murdered,’ Rickman said, wondering how the hell he could have forgotten his client’s name so easily. ‘Her baby is missing.’

  ‘Oh, God — I didn’t make the connection.’ Rickman heard a loud exhalation. ‘This isn’t good.’

  ‘Murder never is. Who set up the loan?’ Rickman asked, trying to keep his impatience in check.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Austin said, ‘I didn’t sell the house to a Jasmine Elliott.’

  ‘Then who did you sell it to? A boyfriend? A landlord?’

  But Mr Austin was on his own personal tack and seemed not to have heard the question. ‘People are superstitious,’ he said, as though Rickman had dumped a whole sackful of black cats on the doorstep of his office. ‘They’ll see our sign and — I don’t suppose . . .’ He coughed, covering an embarrassed laugh. ‘You, um, couldn’t ask one of your lads to take it down, could you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rickman said. Austin totally missed the sarcastic tone and began to thank him. ‘I’ll bring it round to the office myself, shall I?’

  ‘Now, look—’ Austin said.

  ‘No. You look — I’ve got a dead girl and a missing baby. Answer the damn question: who did you sell the house to?’

  ‘It wasn’t a boyfriend. It was a woman.’ Austin grumbled, as though the murder victim was the cause of his present trouble.

  Rickman took a breath, but before he could say anything, Austin said, ‘Okay — I’m looking it up . . .’ An agonizing pause, then, ‘Here it is . . . Kim,’ he said. ‘Kim Lindermann.’

  Rickman could have punched the air. ‘I’ll need an address.’ When he hung up, all three members of his team were staring at him with hungry anticipation.

  ‘I think we’ve found Kim,’ he said.

  * * *

  A cross-check with the electoral register and DVLA confirmed the address was genuine and current, and Rickman despatched Foster and Hart to interview Kim Lindermann.

  ‘What do we know about her?’ Foster asked, flicking the windscreen wiper once to clear a spatter of rain.

  Hart sifted through a sheaf of printouts. ‘Kim Lindermann, née Vince,’ she said. ‘Former addict. Convictions for shoplifting, soliciting, possession.’ There was a sorry arrest mugshot. Kim looked emaciated, her flesh greyish-white, hair bleached blonde and brittle as spun sugar.

  ‘So what happened?’

  She glanced at him, frowning.

  ‘Sefton Park address, Naomi. Not exactly social housing, is it?’

  She checked the arrest record. ‘Her last conviction was . . . five years ago.’

  ‘She cleaned up her act.’

  ‘In a big way.’ Hart read from a printout of a webpage Tunstall had found. ‘Kimberley Louise Lindermann, age twenty-eight
. She enrolled as a mature student at Liverpool John Moores, got a first in architecture and interior design in — bloody hell — just under two years. She worked for Urban Splash for a couple of years, then hooked up with Lars Lindermann.’ A bolt of recognition. ‘Oh, my god — it’s that Kim Lindermann.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Know of her. Lars Lindermann develops properties, then Kim gives them the KL stamp of style.’

  Foster pulled up at a red light and turned to look at her. ‘How d’you know all this?’

  ‘I based the interior of my flat on one of her designs. You remember my flat, don’t you?’ Foster had paid a fleeting visit when they had been allocated at short notice to babysit a witness in a murder case. She’d had to go home to pick up toiletries and a change of clothing, and since Foster drove her, it would have seemed churlish to make him wait outside.

  Foster closed his eyes briefly, as if visualising the room. ‘View of the Anglican Cathedral. Wood floors, a couple of paintings in red and black, muted red sofas, heaps of cushions — what do people do with all them cushions?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Oh, and a state-of-the-art TV.’ He slid her a sly look. ‘Do I pass?’

  Hart tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She usually played her ‘ice maiden’ reputation to her best advantage with Foster, but occasionally he caught her on the back foot with his disconcerting insights. ‘You pass.’ She was galled to see a smile curl at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You’re not gonna gush all over her, are you?’

  ‘I’ll try to restrain myself,’ she said.

  He acknowledged the comment with the merest twinkle. ‘Any family?’

  ‘Two kids, aged three and one.’

  ‘So — nice family, nice house, her own business. She really did get her life back on track, didn’t she?’

  Hart flipped him a look. ‘Good for her, I say.’

  Foster turned off Ullet Road into the park. On the perimeter road, traffic was thinner, and the sky opened up under a wide expanse of cropped grass and trees in improbable autumn colour.

  Moments later, they were drawing up outside a double-fronted, three-storey house. A border sloped to a beech hedge, which topped a low sandstone wall. Foster gave a whistle. ‘She really got her life back on track.’

  A BMW 8-series and a brand-new Chrysler Pacifica stood in the driveway. Foster stared longingly at them as they walked towards the house. ‘Did I say—’

  ‘Back on track,’ Hart said. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Seriously, though — their transport must be worth more than my mortgage.’

  Hart chuckled and started up the steps as the door opened.

  Kim Lindermann was dressed in cashmere that looked like it had been commissioned from the catwalk. Her pose was nineteen-fifties haute couture: one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching a neat leather briefcase that matched the autumn tones of her coat.

  ‘May I help you?’ Her voice was deep, cultured, no hint of Liverpool in the vowel sounds.

  Hart made the introductions. Mrs Lindermann watched her coldly as she continued up the steps, warrant card in hand.

  The woman’s hair, a rich, dark brown, was twisted into a knot at the back of her head, in a style that Hart suspected was calculated to recall the fifties gamine look. It seemed that Mrs Lindermann was a perfectionist in matters of style.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Jasmine Elliott,’ Hart said.

  Something flickered in the woman’s eyes. They were green, with darker rims to the irises. ‘I’m going to meet a client.’ The only sign of nervousness was a quick, practised sweep of her free hand over her hair, checking for loose strands.

  ‘This won’t take long.’ Hart kept moving, confident that Mrs Lindermann would give way. She did. Hart saw two spots of pink bloom on the woman’s face as she walked past her. Mrs Lindermann checked her watch. ‘I can spare fifteen minutes,’ she said.

  She led them down a hallway that smelled of beeswax and fresh paint. A wide staircase dominated the centre of the lobby. It led to a gallery that Hart half-expected would be occupied by a forbidding housekeeper in Victorian costume. But the modern sculptures in steel, and the abstract wall decorations in metal and spun glass, grounded the décor firmly in the twenty-first century.

  By the time Hart had taken all of this in, Mrs Lindermann was standing by a doorway to the right of the hall, a look of amusement on her face. She disappeared inside, and as Foster brushed past, he touched the side of his mouth with the tip of his finger. ‘Bit of drool, there, Naomi.’

  She followed him, scowling at his back.

  Mrs Lindermann dropped her briefcase and swept her coat from her shoulders, draping it over a cream linen sofa. She wore a copper-red sweater over trousers carefully chosen to match the russets and browns of her overcoat.

  ‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until the morning?’ The fastidious diction, the way in which she hardened the ‘c’ and ‘t’ phonemes suggested elocution lessons — a voice coach, maybe. She stood with one hand on the corner of the sofa, a defensive posture that she contrived to look patrician. She waved them to a seat, but neither Hart nor Foster accepted the invitation — the woman already had an advantage over them.

  ‘You purchased a house recently,’ Hart said.

  Mrs Lindermann arched one carefully shaped eyebrow. ‘I trust the paperwork is in order?’

  Hart looked at Foster. She doesn’t know. ‘Have you been letting the property?’

  ‘No.’ Hart waited for more, and she sighed impatiently. ‘I signed over the deeds of title.’

  ‘To Jasmine Elliott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very generous,’ Foster said. Normally, an attractive woman like Mrs Lindermann would be treated to the Foster charm, but he didn’t even try the famous smile on her.

  She seemed to consider the impertinence of his comment, then gave a small shrug. ‘Returning a favour.’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  She replied with careful, precise articulation: ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Lindermann,’ Hart said.

  Kim Lindermann’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, then, as realisation dawned, they widened. ‘Is Jasmine all right?’

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ Hart said.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘for pity’s sake!’ Her hand gripped the sofa, as though she might fall.

  Hart glanced at Foster and he gave the slightest nod. ‘Jasmine is dead,’ she said.

  ‘How?’ The woman’s voice a horrified whisper.

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Mrs Lindermann clutched her stomach as though from a physical blow. ‘Bryony?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘The baby is missing.’

  She sagged a little more, then with a monumental effort she straightened up, lengthening her body, holding her head erect. She looked past them, as though focusing on something in the near distance. ‘Mark Davis,’ she said.

  Hart avoided Foster’s gaze. ‘What about him?’ she asked.

  ‘That bastard’s been trying to drag Jasmine down with him ever since they met.’ Mrs Lindermann looked into Hart’s face. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Hart said, keeping her tone neutral.

  ‘A lot of addicts I’ve known have a drug of choice — booze, coke, heroin, cannabis. Mark isn’t choosy, as long as it gets him high. Jasmine thought he was using speed and crystal meth as uppers, when he needed to stay alert.’ When she saw that this meant nothing to them, she said, ‘I got screwed up on meth a couple of times. If a baby stares at you from its pram — you think it’s a government agent, trying to read your mind.’

  Foster shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Jasmine was still seeing Davis?’ Hart asked.

  ‘She kicked him out. But he wouldn’t let her be.’ Mrs Lindermann’s eyes glittered hard and cold. ‘Bastard . . .�
� She trembled from head to foot and Hart stepped quickly over, but Kim Lindermann turned on her, flinging her supporting hand away.

  ‘Get the hell away from me.’ The clipped tones slipped and her voice rose to a scream. ‘What use are you now? What use are you to anyone?’

  Then she was crying, wiping tears from her face and sobbing in great, wrenching gulps. She turned from them and stumbled to the window, while Hart looked helplessly at Foster.

  ‘Mrs Lindermann?’ The voice was tentative, young. Hart and Foster turned to the girl at the door. ‘I heard shouting. Is everything all right?’ She looked anxiously at Hart, warily at Foster.

  Kim Lindermann stiffened. ‘It’s fine, Vicky,’ she said, her back to the room. ‘Please, go and see to the children.’

  The door closed softly as Vicky retreated. Mrs Lindermann remained at the window, hugging herself tightly and taking juddering breaths until the tears subsided.

  When she was calm, Hart said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Lindermann. We had no idea . . .’

  ‘Jasmine saved my life,’ Mrs Lindermann said, her voice muffled with tears. ‘Five years ago. Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? But I’m not exaggerating. I’d taken an overdose. It wasn’t accidental.’ She seemed to think about that for a short while.

  ‘Jasmine wasn’t supposed to find me, but when I didn’t show up outside her school at the usual time, she came looking. She’ — a sigh broke the flow of her words — ‘She called an ambulance, performed CPR until they arrived. When I was well enough, she made me go to counselling.’ She gave a teary laugh. ‘Imagine, a twelve-year-old girl — I was almost twice her age — I was supposed to be the responsible one, but she sorted me out.’ She looked at them, fondness and bewilderment on her face, asking them to understand the remarkable child who had saved her.

  ‘So, you returned the favour,’ Foster said. ‘Bought her a house, gave her a chance to make a new start.’

  Mrs Lindermann looked around her as if realising for the first time how much more Jasmine had given her than her life. Then she nodded, turning to look out of the window onto the park. ‘When I first knew her, Jasmine was wild, but not heavily into drugs. Then she met Mark.’ Her voice hardened. ‘It was Mark who got Jasmine on crack. She cleaned up when she discovered she was pregnant — swore she wouldn’t put her baby through withdrawal. And she did it — she got free of it.’ There was pride in her tone. ‘But Davis kept coming after her.’