Too Close For Comfort

by Adam Croft

  Too Close For Comfort

  Adam Croft

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 Adam Croft

  Discover other titles by Adam Croft at Smashwords.com: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/adamcroft

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  FOREWORD

  I started writing this book in the summer of 2008, filling the void between a rain-soaked week in Devon and the prospect of making up for it with a glorious fortnight's sunshine in Crete. It was on this holiday that I began to flesh out my plans for Too Close For Comfort and really develop the plot in my mind. We were waiting for our flight back from Nikos Kazantzakis International Airport when my mother called to say that my grandmother had been taken ill. On returning to the UK after an overnight flight, we drove straight to Watford General Hospital to see her. She was diagnosed with cancer later that day.

  It was a long and arduous journey and it was horrific to watch her suffer through the pain of chemotherapy but even at the age of seventy-eight she made a wonderful recovery and was given the all-clear on Monday 15th December. By the following Tuesday, she had passed away. The chemotherapy treatment had taken its toll and her body was no longer able to fight the way it used to. That date was Tuesday 23rd December 2008. It is, perhaps, fitting that I finally finished writing the book and published it exactly two years later, on 23rd December 2010.

  I feel the last two-and-a-half years have finally come full circle in more ways than one. There really is only one person to whom this book could possibly be dedicated.

  Adam Croft

  December 2010

  For Grandma.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DS Wendy Knight stared at the photograph of Ella Barrington. Ella’s swollen purple face lay lifeless in the mud. Blood had trickled from her nose and dried onto her lips. Her eyes had the appearance of glass; almost doll-like.

  DCI Culverhouse, in his usual inimitable style, gave a run-down to the rest of the investigation team.

  “Ella Barrington, aged twenty-one. Prostitute.”

  Wendy smiled to herself and gave a small shake of the head. Culverhouse always got to the important details first.

  “Discovered by an early commuter at Mildenheath Train Station at six-thirty this morning. We’ve got a combination of strangulation and suffocation. Oh, and her throat was slashed, too. We’ve no way of telling yet what actually killed her, but I think we can rule out a tragic accident.”

  A nervous chuckle rippled through the incident room.

  “All forensics can say at this stage is that it’s almost certain she died at the spot on which she was found, and that they knew which direction her throat had been cut in.”

  “Which direction?”Wendy enquired.

  “Sorry?”

  “Which direction was her throat cut in? You said they knew.”

  “From left to right, apparently, but I don’t see what fucking difference it makes at this stage, Knight.”

  Wendy knew that one could tell a lot from the direction of a cut. “So the killer was right-handed?”

  “What?”

  “You said her throat was cut from left to right. That means the killer must have been right-handed.”

  “Listen to me, Knight. I’ve not got time to listen to your bullshit theories on fucking forensics – that’s why we’ve got those dickheads in white suits crawling all over the body.”

  “I was only saying –“

  Culverhouse shot a telling stare in Wendy’s direction. That was her cue to shut up and listen. ‘The victim was easily identifiable – the beat bobbies tend to see her around the station touting for business most nights. That and she had her driving license on her in her purse.’

  “She still had her purse on her?” Wendy enquired.

  “Correct. Keep up.”

  Wendy thought twice before offering her theory to Culverhouse. “So that means...”

  “That means the killer wasn’t motivated by money or stealing the whore’s possessions. Boys and girls, we’re looking at a cold-blooded prossie killer.”

  Wendy was amazed that Culverhouse had ever managed to scale his way up the apparently politically correct modern police force.

  She recalled a story she had been told by a colleague upon joining Culverhouse’s department. Legend had it that Culverhouse’s wife had done the dirty on him and run off with his child, leaving him with a deep hatred of women. She had heard that he would go out of his way to make sure that prostitutes and female petty offenders would be dealt with swiftly and to the fullest extent of the law, even if it meant the odd con getting away with murder – sometimes literally.

  There was an air of intrigue around Culverhouse – there was no denying that. Wendy, though, had always been wary of DCI Culverhouse and his hard-cut reputation. Now, on her first real murder case, she knew she was going to need all the help she could get.

  Debbie Weston whispered to Wendy, “I really don’t know how he stays so calm. I’d be bricking it if I had to lead a murder investigation.”

  “It’s a case of having to, Constable Weston. Murders are simply business. You can’t let it get personal or it’ll eat away at you until there’s nothing left,” Culverhouse barked. Debbie Weston was a new addition to the department and would have to learn the hard way about Culverhouse’s legendary supersonic hearing. She got the impression that he spoke with a voice of experience.

  The ringing phone pierced through the hubbub in the incident room.

  “It’s for you, guv.”

  DCI Culverhouse strode confidently towards the desk and listened to the voice on the other end of the line for a few seconds before murmuring a thank you and replacing the handset.

  “They’ve found a second victim. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The terror and trepidation surged through Wendy’s veins like an erupting volcano.

  Ever since she was a young child, Wendy had longed to be a detective and revelled in solving murder mystery books and television programmes long before the end of the story. Every budding detective dreamed of their first serial killer case, but there was absolutely no way she could have ever prepared for the brutal reality and sheer panic she felt right now.

  The surge of terror sank to the pit of Wendy’s stomach, giving her little warning as she vomited violently into the toilet basin. The relentless deluge stopped her from even catching her breath, as if desperately trying to expunge the terror and anxiety from within her.

  Wendy had always assumed she would follow in her father's footsteps. She recalled overhearing her father telling her mother about the bad men he had locked up that day. Of course, that lack of confidentiality would result in disciplinary action today, but Wendy’s father came from a different world.

  There were words she didn’t know at the time – rape, prostitute, dismemberment, mutilation – but as she grew older and learnt to fill in the gaps, it served only to further fuel her desire for justice.

  She remembered seeing his ID card sat on the hall dresser after he returned from the station each night. She had never told him, but she used to creep downstairs every evening and polish it with her nightie. She chuckled to herself now as she recalled it.

  Wendy always escaped to a dream world in her childhood under times of stress. It wa
s a safe haven where there were no criminals, no rapists and no murderers. If there were bad men, her father would have dealt with them; she had no fear on that front.

  Before long, reality had set in again and Wendy longed to be back in her dream world. The thought of these young lives being ended so horrifically had her retching into the toilet again.

  As she returned to the incident room, Culverhouse was ready and waiting like a fat, hairy creature ready to pounce on its prey. The similarity did not go unnoticed by Wendy.

  “Nice of you to join us, Knight. I’ve had Weston all round the fucking station looking for you.”

  “Sorry guv – nature called.” The mere mention of nature had Wendy smirking at the creature stood before her.

  “There’s nothing funny about your fucking bowel movements, Detective Sergeant Knight,” he boomed in an embarrassingly loud voice. “We’ve got a serial killer to catch and you’re part of this team. Next time you want to fuck off and shit yourself for twenty minutes, you ask me – alright?” Wendy was put firmly in her place.

  “Right, now we need to get moving on this one. DS Wing and DS Vine – I want you onto the MO. See what connections you can find between the two cases. Knight, you’re coming to the Common with me. We’re going to view the scene before SOCO get their grubby mitts all over it. Weston and Baxter – you’re coming too.”

  Wendy raised an eyebrow. Why on Earth was he taking an inexperienced PC to a murder scene? To a serial murder scene at that. She had worked with Baxter before and knew what a slimy git he could really be. She thought twice about commenting and realised she had nothing to lose.

  “Baxter’s coming?”

  “Yes, Knight, he is. Do we have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all, guv. I just thought maybe there was some paperwork he could be getting on with here. We’re getting snowed under already.”

  Shit. She’d only spent a few hours in the company of Culverhouse and already she was turning into a bigot.

  “Baxter’s going to be a part of this team, Knight. He’s going places and he needs to experience certain things – you catch my drift?”

  Wendy’s mind wandered to a time when she had first seen a dead body not long after joining the police force – a woman beaten to death by her husband. She could vividly recall her thoughts and feelings as she first entered that living room.

  It was the smell that had hit her first. That foul, rotten stench seared through your nostrils and stayed with you for the rest of your life, hiding somewhere deep within and pouncing in your least guarded moments. Dreams were a particular favourite. She remembered seeing the body lying on the floor in a mishmash of colours. The blonde hair, the brown dried blood, the blue skin. Oh God, that blue, lifeless skin. The sight and smell had made her sick then, too.

  Wendy never ceased to be amazed at how a dead body could look so different to a sleeping, living person. It was as if with the passing of life, a light had gone out somewhere. In the absence of any other credible evidence, this gave Wendy her spiritual belief. If we are simply bags of bones and blood, Wendy thought, how can there be such a distinct lack of soul and being in the empty shell of a dead person?

  Wendy hated murder scenes. Although she tried to appear nonchalant every time, inside she was a quivering wreck. Now it was Baxter’s turn. That slimy, goody two-shoes had been nurtured and fathered by Culverhouse ever since he joined the force. Butter wouldn’t melt in Baxter’s mouth as far as Culverhouse was concerned.

  Yeah – let him experience it. Let him see an innocent person’s entrails spilling out onto the floor. Let him see it, the bastard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The grass on Mildenheath Common was a yellowing colour. The scorching summer had been particularly unkind to it this year.

  As they crossed the grassy area from the gravel car park to the crime scene, Wendy couldn’t help but smirk at the horror that bastard Baxter was about to experience.

  Upon reaching the body, the foul, pungent smell hit Wendy like a ten-tonne truck, and PC Baxter even worse.

  “You alright, Luke?”

  Wendy could see Baxter’s face turning a pale shade of green before her very eyes.

  “Yeah, fine. Just a bit – you know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Your confidence is fooling no-one, you bastard. Come on – show everyone what a big man you are.

  The body lay lifeless on the ground, just as Ella Barrington’s had. Her blue, lifeless skin looked ice cold against the searing summer’s day.

  “He’s had a right good go at her, guv.”

  Wendy never ceased to be amazed at the specialist talent of SOCO – stating the bleeding obvious.

  “We can see that. What have we got?”

  “You’d be better off asking what we haven't got. She's been suffocated, strangled, and her throat has been slashed. Sound familiar? Someone wanted this woman dead, and they weren’t going to mess about with it.”

  “What else do we have?”

  “Well we’re pretty sure that it’s the same guy who did Ella Barrington. There are a number of patterns that link the two. I’d go out on a limb to say we’re definitely looking a serial killer.”

  “Fantastic. You always know how to brighten my day, you SOCO lot. Tell me more about these patterns.”

  “Well, there’s still a lot we need to look at. I can tell you that the killer was almost definitely right-handed.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “See these slash marks? You can see the entry point of the knife and the way the pressure has been applied. We can tell from the knots, too. They were almost definitely tied by a right-handed person.”

  Wendy shot a wry smirk in Culverhouse’s direction. It was met by a faint, but definite grudging nod of acceptance.

  “You noting this down, Baxter?”

  No answer. Culverhouse spun around to where PC Luke Baxter had been standing. He was gone.

  “Fucking hell, that’s all we need. Did anyone see him move?”

  “Nothing, guv. He was stood behind us all, so he could be anywhere.”

  “You’re really helping, Knight. You’re really fucking helping.”

  The officers split into three groups and spread across the moor to look for Luke, while two SOCOs stayed at the crime scene. Wendy and Culverhouse were in a pair, and headed toward the wooded area at the edge of the common.

  “Permission to say I told you so, guv?”

  Culverhouse’s silence told Wendy everything she needed to know. As they approached the edge of the common, Culverhouse began to call out. Wendy could sense exasperation in his voice – or was it desperation?

  “Baxter? BAXTER!”

  PC Luke Baxter came jogging out of the woods in front of them.

  “What is it, guv?”

  “Where the fuck have you been? We’ve got a fucking search party out for you!”

  “Sorry, guv. I, uh, wanted to explore the wider area a bit more. Get a feel for the crime scene, you know.”

  Culverhouse’s eyes moved towards the vomit stain on Baxter’s uniform vest.

  “Got a feel of this morning’s breakfast at the same time, did you?”

  Wendy was delighting inside as Baxter’s face turned an impressive shade of red.

  As they returned to the body, Culverhouse continued his conversation with the SOCO.

  “You were saying?”

  “Yes. The interesting thing, Detective Chief Inspector, is that the killer has made no attempt to conceal either this young lady’s body, or that of Ella Barrington. As you can see, we’re wide out in the middle of the Common. We’d usually expect to find a body buried or at least hidden in the undergrowth. It’s almost as if he wanted her to be found.”

  Wendy, stunned, interjected.

  “He?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re almost certainly looking at a man. The brutality of the struggle is evident and, with the greatest respect, there’s no way a woman tied knots like these.”

  Cul
verhouse seemed to ignore what he deemed to be rather obvious.

  “Do we have a positive ID yet?”

  “Yes – she still had her bag and purse on her. It doesn’t seem as though your man made any attempt to steal anything. She’s Maria Preston – a well known local prostitute.”

  “We’ll end up with a shortage if we’re not careful.” A ripple of nervous laughter followed Culverhouse’s remark.

  “Right, well it looks as though we’ve got our biggest link yet. Two murders, two prostitutes.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That evening, as Wendy made her way to her brother’s flat, she couldn’t help but play the same line over and over in her head.

  It’s almost as if he wanted her to be found.

  Why on Earth would the killer want his victims to be found so easily? Why would he not want their flesh to decay, their bodies to rot so badly that the police could not identify them as easily as they otherwise could? Did he want the police to find him just as easily? The questions kept encircling Wendy’s mind.

  Michael’s flat was situated in a less-than-desirable part of Mildenheath, to say the least.

  As Wendy drove through the dark, dimly-lit streets, she recalled the last time she’d visited Michael’s flat. Cigarette ash was sprinkled all over the sodden furniture and a mixture of blood, semen and sweat had worked its way into the filthy carpets. Wendy shuddered as she anticipated the scene she would witness this time.

  She parked her car in a well-lit corner of the communal car park and made her way up the metal staircase that scaled the front wall of the building.