by Adam Croft
As she entered the flat, Wendy felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. The siblings that had shared parents; shared a household; shared a childhood. How could they grow up to be such entirely different people?
“It’s good to see you again, Wend.”
“And you, Michael. How are you bearing up?”
“Yeah, pretty good actually. That’s why I called you over. I’m starting to pick myself up. As you can see, I’m already getting the flat in order.”
Wendy looked around at the muck and filth that consisted of Michael’s home. Cobwebs adorned every crevice and mould was almost visibly crawling up the walls.
“Yeah, so I see. It looks... great.”
“Coffee?”
“Uh, no, I’m fine thanks. I can’t drink coffee too late in the evening.”
“Oh, right. Well I’m afraid I don’t really have anything else to offer you. I’ve not been to the shops yet this week.”
Wendy hoped the sigh of relief wasn’t made out loud.
“And the drugs? Have you stopped the drugs?”
Michael made his way through to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee.
“Course I have. Been clean a few months now.”
Had it really been that long since she had last seen Michael? It must have been.
Out of the corner of her eye, Wendy noticed something. A syringe containing a small amount of brown liquid adorned the french dresser in the living room. Even without her narcotics training, it was pretty evident that the needle was used and had once held heroin.
Michael returned with his coffee.
“A few months, yeah? Then what’s this?”
“That? Oh, that’s from a friend of mine. He’s not managed to kick the habit yet. I really should stop him coming over, I know. It’s not a good influence.”
Wendy may only have seen Michael a handful of times in the previous few years, but she still knew when he was lying.
“Tell me the truth, Michael. This is yours, isn’t it?”
“It’s not as easy as you think, Wend. I’m trying – I’m trying.”
“Trying? Fucking trying? Dad would turn in his grave if he knew you were pumping this shit into your arms. Or have you started on your legs yet?”
“I’m trying! I swear to God I’m trying! Do you have any idea how hard it is to just stop after seven years? I’ve been doing this fucking shit for seven years, Wend. It’s fucking powerful stuff and it’s not as easy as that.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not even interested in trying! Even through mum’s illness you carried on pumping that shit into yourself without a care in the world.”
“It was the only way I knew how to cope.”
“Cope?! Don’t make me laugh! It was probably you and your fucking addiction that finished her off!”
No sooner had Wendy uttered those words than she had immediately regretted every one of them.
“Wend, I called you because I need you. I need help.”
“You’ve had my help whenever you wanted it for the past seven years, but nothing’s changed. Nothing will ever change. I’m through with you, Michael. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
Whether through anger or guilt, Wendy left Michael’s flat, slammed the door and headed for her car.
As she coasted through the streets of Mildenheath, Wendy played the conversation over and over in her head. It was something she seemed to make a habit of, although she wasn’t quite sure whether it was the mark of a good police officer or a character trait that left her unable to forgive and forget.
Stopping at the traffic lights on Southold Street, Wendy noticed a pub, The Cardinal, at the side of the road. Swinging her car round to the left, she pulled into the car park and walked into the pub.
She perused the drinks on offer – her eyes stopping at the bottle of whiskey attached to the optic. She didn’t even like whiskey, but it had an appeal.
“Whiskey, please.”
“Heavy day, was it?”
“You could say that. Can you make it a double?”
The barman duly obliged and collected the money from his new friend for the evening. Despite being a town centre pub, The Cardinal never seemed to get much passing trade. It once had a reputation as a rough pub, and the exterior decor did it no favours in lifting said reputation.
“Penny for ‘em.”
“You wouldn’t want to know, trust me.”
“Copper, are ya?”
“How’d you know?”
“We get a lot of them in here. Easy to spot, really.”
Wendy wondered whether they ever got a lot of anything in here. She certainly saw no reason for any of her colleagues to drink in this dive. Except Culverhouse. She’d bet Culverhouse would love this place.
“It’s a long story.”
“Try me.”
“OK. Yes, I’m a copper. I’m attached to a murder case which is now a serial murder case. There’s a nutter on the loose who’s chopping down prostitutes at a rate of knots, and we’re miles from catching him because my senior commanding officer is a clueless prick. For a brief respite, I went to visit my idiot smack-head brother this evening only to find out that he’s still an idiot and still a smack-head. How’s that for starters?”
“Better than most I hear, I’ll give you that. First I’ve heard of any serial killer, though.”
“We’ve only just found out ourselves. It’s due to hit the papers in the morning. Call it a sneak preview.”
“I’m honoured. You nowhere near catching the fellow then?”
“Not really. There are still a few things to tie up.”
Wendy guffawed at the terrible pun and realised she needed another whiskey.
The barman rang the bell for no-one’s benefit but Wendy’s. Christ, it was half-eleven. She didn’t know what time she’d arrived at The Cardinal, but it was a good four whiskeys ago. With no other option, Wendy said her goodbyes and left.
She didn’t think twice about getting into her car and driving home – even after her good four whiskeys. Any other night, she’d have walked or got a taxi, but tonight she just didn’t care. In fact, the thought rather amused her.
As she reversed her Mazda out of the parking space, she realised she hadn’t switched on her lights. As she fumbled to do so, she looked up and into her rear-view mirror just in time to see the large BMW meet the rear windscreen with an almighty bang.
Wendy got out of her car and apologised profusely to the man in the BMW.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Car’s a bit worse for wear, though. Christ knows how you managed that – I wasn’t even moving!”
“I’m so sorry. My mind was elsewhere and I just went onto autopilot.”
“It happens. Just as long as you’re insured, mind!”
“Don’t worry about that – I can go one better. I’m a police officer.”
“Well, saves me a phone call! WPC, are you?”
“No, I’m attached to the murder squad, actually. Wendy Knight. Pleased to meet you.”
“Blimey, a real professional woman. There’s a turn-up for the books. I’m Robert, by the way. Robert Ludford.”
The man handed Wendy his business card in a manner far too unsuitable for the occasion.
Robert Ludford ~ Chartered Accountant.
“Blimey, a real professional man. There’s a turn-up for the books.”
The pair chuckled as they exchanged insurance details.
“Oh, and Wendy? Be careful, won’t you? Whiskey and cars are never a good mix. You wouldn't want to have to arrest yourself for drunk driving.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Wendy staggered into the incident room on Tuesday morning with the most horrendous hangover. She was sure she had only had four whiskeys, but it felt like forty. One of the many pleasures of getting old, she concluded.
“Christ, Knight. You look like the back end of a horse.”
Wendy admir
ed Culverhouse’s unique concept of a compliment.
“Thanks, guv. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Heavy night, was it?”
“No – I just went to see my brother.”
“Didn’t realise smack gave you a hangover.”
Wendy shot a loathsome glance towards Culverhouse, who visibly stepped backward and raised his hands, as if in defeat.
“Well, it’s nice of you to join us, anyway. We’ve had Steve and Frank getting to the bottom of the MOs and there are a number of matches.”
Wendy was willing to bet money that the only thing Detective Sergeants Steve Wing and Frank Vine had been getting to the bottom of were a succession of McDonald’s bags.
“Firstly, both our victims were prostitutes. It might seem a little cliché, but I think this is probably the route he’s going down. There’s no evidence so far that the women knew each other – at least not from what their families and friends have told us, but we’re sure it’s the same guy who finished them both off.”
“What patterns have we got?”
“Well, each of the victims was found with a length of rope tied around their necks. The rope used for each victim was different – Ella Barrington’s was a manila hemp whilst Maria Preston’s was a blue plastic sort of rope. The weirdest bit is the way they were tied. Now, I’m no expert, but they weren’t your usual knots. Frank was in the boy scouts when he was younger, and he reckons they were – what did you say they were called, Frank?”
“Bowline knots, guv. It’s pretty handy for nooses.”
A shiver ran down Wendy’s spine as she quizzed DS Vine for more information.
“So we think the victims had been hanged? Or just strangled?”
“Not hung, no. There’s no sign of broken necks or any kind of blunt trauma from the rope. You see, the bowline knot is often used for situations where the knot will come under a lot of strain. It’s not the most common one for your average serial killer to use; it's quite a specialist knot, you see; mainly used by sailors and anyone who has ever been in the boy scouts. The interesting thing is the amount of mud that had been collected in the fibres of the ropes. It leads me to think that he’d tied the rope around the girls’ necks and dragged them to their final resting places.”
“Shit. Were they alive at this point?”
“I’d say not. For all its strengths, the bowline knot is very easy to untie. Besides, the mud embedded in the ropes was too localised. If they’d been kicking and screaming, much more of the rope would have come into contact with the mud than we’re seeing here.”
“So how were they killed?”
“The throat-cutting, most likely. It seems as though the whole noose idea was some sort of perverted game – they were already dead at this point. There seems to be no traces of blood on the ground where the bodies were found, except the parts that were in direct contact with any wounds, of course.”
Just as Frank had finished talking, Steve Wing turned up the volume on the television. It was a local news report on the murders.
“ – but the Police have not said whether they believe the two girls were connected in any way. What they have said, however, is that they believe the killer may strike again and urge women in the area of Mildenheath to take extra care when leaving their homes.”
As the camera cut back to the studio, Culverhouse was distinctly unimpressed.
“Nice one, Steve. Next time maybe you can let us see the other ninety-five percent of it.”
The tense atmosphere was cut short with a rap at the door of the incident room.
“DCI Culverhouse? I’m Patrick Sharp.”
“Sorry?”
“The psychological profiler. I presume Commander Hawes told you I was coming?”
“I’m afraid our esteemed Commander has a habit of telling me fuck all, Mr Sharp. Do come in.”
As Culverhouse took a seat next to Wendy, Patrick Sharp perched himself on the edge of Culverhouse’s desk and proceeded to address the team.
“It seems as though we’ve got precious little time to waste, so I’ll get straight into it. Despite immediate appearances, the personality of the man we’re looking for is quite common amongst serial killers. The fact that he seems to leave his victims in rather findable places signals that he is trying to initiate a sort of game with the police. He’s very methodical, too. The cuts to the throat and the tying of the knots were remarkably neat, and the similarities between the two murders are striking. He strikes me as a very orderly man – obsessive, some might say. The peculiar knots point to some military training, perhaps.”
Culverhouse had the look of a grandmother being taught to suck eggs.
“However, the information I have at this time is very brief. I believe SOCO intend to provide me with some more information shortly, so I’ll have more for you then.”
And with that, Mr Sharp stood up and left the room.
“Well that was a fucking waste of time,” said Culverhouse. “I could have told you that myself.”
As the officers returned to their respective desks, Wendy’s phone rang.
“DS Knight?”
“Ah, Wendy. Hello – it’s Robert, Robert Ludford.”
Wendy paused whilst she tried to match a face to the name through whiskey-clouded thoughts.
“From last night? Surely you remember, Wendy.”
“Oh yes, sorry. I’m still rather tired. How did you get my work number?”
“You gave me your card.”
“I did? Sorry – it’s all a bit of a blur. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s more of a case of what I can do for you, actually. I was wondering if you might like to come out for dinner one night. I know a fantastic restaurant in Walverston.”
Whiskey-clouded thoughts of the impending murder investigation and her argument with Michael were not helping Wendy’s mood.
“No, I don’t think that would be very appropriate. Sorry, Robert. Goodbye.”
No sooner than Wendy had hung up the phone, it rang again.
“What?”
“Oh, hello. Is that the incident room for the Mildenheath murders?”
“Yes, sorry. Who am I speaking to?”
“My name’s Mrs Connors – Alma Connors. I think I know who committed these terrible killings. I think it was my son.”
CHAPTER SIX
Alma Connors’ house smelt faintly of cats. As the sweet old lady guided Wendy and Culverhouse into her living room, Wendy noted that her son must be in his forties by now. Either that, or Alma Connors was a very late starter.
“Can I get either of you a cup of tea?”
Culverhouse quickly surveyed the scene, noting the cat smell and the bird droppings on the mantelpiece before curtly answering for both himself and Wendy.
“No thank you, Mrs Connors. That’s very kind of you.”
“Well, I suppose I should get straight to the point, then.”
Culverhouse wished very much that she would.
“As I mentioned to DS Knight on the telephone, I believe my son may be the man you are looking for in connection with the recent killings.”
“And what makes you think that, Mrs Connors?”
“Call it a mother’s intuition, if you will.”
At this, Wendy cast her eyes towards Culverhouse – knowing exactly the look she would find upon his face.
“Mrs Connors. As much as it pains me to say it, intuition does not go down very well as admissible evidence in court. Now, if your ‘intuition’ is the only reason for calling me and DS Knight away from a very important investigation, I would like to warn you that it could very well be considered as wasting police time.”
“Oh no, Inspector. There’s plenty of evidence, believe you me.”
Culverhouse had a feeling that Alma Connors’ definition of ‘evidence’ may differ slightly from his.
“You see – my son, Thomas, or Tom, as he likes to be called, was dating a young lady up until recently. Quite a nice, young lady
– very polite. However, it was quite clear that she wasn’t your usual run-of-the-mill girlfriend.”
Culverhouse’s patience was running thin.
“Go on, Mrs Connors.”
“Well, she was – you know – a lady of the night.”
“You mean a prostitute?”
“Yes, if you like. Now Thomas has never had many girlfriends, so I think it was all rather convenient for him. He suffers from some social difficulties, you see – Asperger’s Syndrome. I’m quite sure the relationship never became sexual – not under my roof, anyway. He used to buy her all sorts of nice gifts with the money he had saved and I think he just quite liked having a young lady friend to feel proud of.”
“And how does this tie in with our investigation, Mrs Connors?”
“Well, if I remember correctly, he stopped bringing this girl home a couple of weeks ago now. I asked him what had happened and why she didn’t come over anymore and he acted very evasive. He wouldn’t even mention her name anymore, Inspector. To go from borderline infatuation to complete ignorance in an instant struck me as rather queer.”
“Rather queer indeed, but I must ask you again, Mrs Connors – how does this tie in with our investigation?”
“Well, I was watching the news reports on the killings and they showed a picture of each of the young girls. I’m almost certain that the second one was Thomas’s young girlfriend – Maria Preston – I think that was her name.”
“You think it was her name?”
“Well, yes. That’s not what Thomas told me she was called – he said her name was Lauren – but I suppose these ladies of the night must operate under all sorts of false names and secret identities.” Alma Connors seemed nervous and uneasy at the situation which presented her, yet strangely keen to tell all.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I really didn’t want to have to do this, Inspector. It’s a terrible thing to have to report your own son to the police, but after seeing what happened to those young girls – well – I had no other choice.”
“And you’re quite sure it’s Maria Preston that Tom was seeing?”
“Quite sure, Inspector, yes.”
