by Adam Croft
“I've had a lovely evening. Thank you.”
“It's been a pleasure. I'm just glad you could come.”
Robert chuckled to himself.
“What?”
“No, no. That just reminded me. You said that when I turned up earlier tonight and I thought you meant something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you opened the door stood in that sexy little black dress and I must admit I got a bit... aroused. The next thing I know, you've flung your arms around me and told me you were glad I'd come.”
Wendy spluttered with laughter as she tried to stop herself propelling red wine across the sofa.
“Robert! You have a dirty mind!”
“Well, you can't blame me. You look absolutely breathtaking in that dress.”
“Makes you aroused, you say? How do you mean?” Wendy enquired, moving her hand up the inside of his leg. As she got to the top, she cupped his crotch in her hand and squeezed gently. “Oh... that's how you mean...”
Wendy kissed Robert's neck as he groaned with pleasure. Standing to pull the bolt across on the living room door, Wendy lifted her dress an extra inch or two, revealing a distinct lack of underwear. With that, she straddled Robert on the sofa and they made love.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The incident room buzzed with the shrill ringing of umpteen telephones permeating the very matter inside Wendy's brain. She found she couldn't even handle simple maths. She was sure there were six glasses of wine in the average bottle. Four times six is twenty-four. Or is it? Let's just say it is. Twenty-four divided by three is eight. Fuck. No wonder I've got a hangover. Wait, maybe I've done the maths wrong.
“Thirteen hundred quid's worth of bloody jewellery!”
Umpteen shrieking phones or one shrieking Culverhouse? It was a tough choice.
“Sorry, guv?”
“That's SOCO's take on what that Bryant bird was wearing when she kicked the bucket. That begs two questions, Knight. Number one, why the sodding hell didn't the daft bugger nick it? Number two, where in the name of all that is holy did a part-time shop assistant get the cash to buy thirteen hundred quid's worth of jewellery?”
“I don't know. They might have been presents.”
“Who from, the Sultan of sodding Brunei? No, Knight, there's more to this girl than meets the eye and I'm going to find out what it is.”
***
Wendy shrieked with delight as the sun rose on Mildenheath the next morning. The sofa springs heaved underneath her as she thrust her pelvis back and forth. It felt amazing. Warm and soft – just divine. Robert grinned at Wendy as he held the two warm, juicy buns in his hands.
“Hot cross bun?”
“Ooh, yes please. I was just thinking how soft and bouncy your sofa is while you were in the kitchen. I must get a new one myself.”
“It's very comfortable. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret. I bought the most soft and comfortable sofa in the shop because I knew I'd keep falling asleep in it and could justify buying myself a dedicated reading chair,” he said, pointing to the reclining leather armchair in the corner of the room.
“Why did you need to justify it to yourself?”
“Ah, lack of willpower, I guess.”
“I noticed you have a lot of books. You read much?”
“As much as I can. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say.”
“Indeed. I guess we should think ourselves lucky that the serial killer isn't killing people with pens.”
“He used a sword?”
“Well, no – a knife – but you get the point.”
Robert switched the television on. A short, blonde-haired reporter was stood outside Mildenheath police station.
“Ooh, fame at last!” Robert joked.
“This latest murder,” the blonde-haired reporter explained, “is thought to be linked with two others in Mildenheath which occurred over the last few days. Specific information from Mildenheath Police has been scarce with no word as to how these three young women came to meet their deaths. Their identities, however, were confirmed earlier this evening as twenty-one-year-old Ella Barrington, twenty-nine-year-old Maria Preston and seventeen-year-old Nicole Bryant. Local sources have confirmed that both Ella Barrington and Maria Preston were known prostitutes operating in the area but it is thought that Nicole Bryant was not working as a prostitute at the time of her death. Nonetheless, it appears that this is a line of enquiry which Mildenheath Police are following up.”
Before the reporter could finish her report, Robert switched the TV off.
“Robert? What's that all about?”
“Well, it's not very nice is it? Having to hear about those people dying. No, I suspect you have enough of it at work. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, I'd like to know why you switched the TV off.”
“I told you. I didn't think you'd want to concentrate on work stuff outside of the office. Besides, I don't like hearing about serial killings. It gives me the creeps.”
“You seemed quite interested earlier.”
“Well, just taking a friendly interest, you know.”
The silence hung over the pair for a good two or three minutes before Robert, seemingly continuing a train of thought out loud, broke the deadlock.
“I read a book about something similar once. Turned out the father of the first victim had been the killer and had got such a buzz out of it that he just carried on killing women that reminded him of his daughter. Well, I'm just saying that it's not a massive leap of faith to have it work the other way round.”
“It's unlikely that Mr Bryant will have killed two random prostitutes and popped off his daughter as a piece de resistance, don't you think? I think you've been reading too many books.”
“I see. Well, yes, I do read quite a lot. Quite a varied range of interests, I'm afraid, so I tend to buy a lot of books on various subjects.”
Wendy scanned the bookcase and her eyes rested on a section of eight or nine books on knots.
“You have a lot of books about knots.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. I... I was in the boy scouts. Sort of a long-running interest of mine. Never know when you might need to tie a proper knot.”
“Yes, I suppose there's a lot of call for them in accountancy practices in Mildenheath.”
“Well, not exactly, no. But I am quite keen on camping. I tend to refer to them for that.”
“You're going camping in February?”
“No, why?”
“You've got two books on camping knots open on your coffee table. I just wondered why you were referring to them in the middle of February.”
“Oh, I just wanted to check something. A friend asked me to find something out about bowline knots for him.”
“Oh right. I see.”
The words of Steve Wing and Frank Vine echoed through Wendy's head.
...each of the victims was found with a length of rope tied around their necks...they weren’t your usual knots...Bowline knots... pretty handy for nooses...
A shiver ran down Wendy's spine. Did she believe in coincidences? At this moment she wasn't entirely sure. She made her excuses and left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no easy way to approach the situation. Wendy was torn between her loyalty to the intuition she knew she had – and which had never failed her – and the overwhelming evidence before her.
“DS Knight, will you get to the sodding point? What does a saucy date with some tart accountant have to do with my bloody murder investigation?”
“I think there might be a link somewhere, guv.”
“Well I'd be a very happy bunny if you'd cut the crap and tell me what it is.”
“This might sound a bit weird.”
“From what you've told me so far, I've had more sensible dreams after seven pints of lager and a chicken vindaloo.”
“I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't think it was important, guv. At first I didn't really notice anything. It's
only in retrospect that things seem a little odd. Robert's been quite keen to find out more about the case every time we've met. I thought it was just natural curiosity at first but now I'm not so sure. He keeps asking about details, as if he's trying to find out how much we know. Then last night I was in his flat and I noticed he had a few books on knots in his bookcase. He said he had been a member of the boy scouts.”
“Ah, well, that's it then. Got him hook, line and sinker. I'll get DS Wing on the blues-and-twos down to the local scout hut to nick the lot of them. Perhaps we can do 'em for singing ging-gang-sodding-goolie in a public place. What in the name if bloody hell are you trying to say, Knight?”
“Guv, please give me a chance to explain. There were two books open on the coffee table. They were both open on pages about bowline knots.”
“Bowline knots?”
“Yes. The knot used to tie the ligatures in all three of the killings.”
“I see. Well, as you said – he's taking an interest. He probably looked it up to find out more about it after you told him about it.”
“Guv, I never mentioned bowline knots to Robert. Or anyone, for that matter. Hell, I haven't even mentioned rope or strangulation!”
“Have we put anything out to the papers about it?”
“No, you told us not to mention anything related to the killing methods for fear of copycat killings.”
“I see. So there's no way this Ludford fellow could know that the murders were committed with this particular type of knot?”
“Well, so far as I can see there is only one way.”
“We can't jump to conclusions, Knight, but it's certainly a strong lead. Tell me – how did you meet Ludford?”
“He approached me outside a pub.”
“He approached you?”
“Yes.” She deigned not to tell Culverhouse that she had reversed into Ludford's car after a skinful of whisky.
“Right. This is all sounding a bit suss to me. I want you to keep seeing Ludford. Get more involved with him. This could be a vital way of obtaining information and closing the net in on him.”
“You think it's him?”
“I've no idea, but it's strong enough to look into.”
“And you want me to get more involved? With a potential serial killer?”
“No, Knight, I want you to break off all contact, obtain no more information and leave him free to kill a load more girls. What do you bloody well think?”
“Well, when you put it like that...”
“Good. I want regular reports immediately after each meeting. I want everything recorded on tape. We'll get you fitted with a recording device.”
“Are you sure the Commander will authorise that, guv?”
Culverhouse pulled a miniature clip-on microphone and hand-held digital recording unit from his desk drawer and placed it in front of Wendy.
“Sod the Commander. Consider it authorised.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wendy's head pounded as she tried to comprehend the situation. Over dinner that night her taste for red wine returned as, somehow, she and Michael managed to demolish two bottles.
“Did you find anything odd about Robert, Michael?”
“Odd? No, why? You gone off him already?”
“Not exactly, no. I just have one or two concerns.”
“About what? Don't tell me. He wears Y-fronts. Farts in bed? Picks his nose?”
“No, nothing like that. I'm worried that... Oh, don't worry. It's silly.”
“Come on, Wend. If you can't confide in me, who can you confide in?”
“You have to promise that you won't tell a single soul, Michael. I mean it. I could lose my job over it.”
“Your job? Wow, you think Robert is involved with some sort of illegal activity? Got to watch those accountants, you know!”
“It's not funny, Michael. Listen. Those three girls were all killed in a very particular way. They were strangled with ropes. Not the same rope each time, but the same very specific knot. It's known as a bowline knot. It sounds stupid saying it now but Robert has a number of books on knots and I found two of them open on pages about bowline knots when I was at his house last night. He claimed it was something to do with a favour for a friend but I don't know. Now I think about it, he's been taking a very keen interest in the case and has been asking a lot of odd questions. I don't know why, but something doesn't quite seem right.”
“And you think he could be the killer?”
“I don't want to think that.”
“But you do?”
“Oh, I don't know what I think right now. All I know is that I'm in a very sticky situation to say the least.”
Later that night, as Wendy tried to drift off to sleep, recurring visions kept flashing in front of her eyes. First the face of Ella Barrington, then Robert's books. Then Maria Preston, then the books. Then Nicole Bryant. Then the books. How could she have been so foolish? I should have spotted the signs earlier, she surmised. Some detective. Her heart juddered as a sudden thought entered her mind. What if Ludford had intended her to be the next victim? What if that was still his intention? What if he was completely mad? How could Culverhouse insist that she carry on seeing a potential serial killer? Was he mad? Or was she mad for thinking that a completely innocent man – the first man she'd let get close to her in years – was a serial killer? As she tried to comprehend her thoughts, the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Culverhouse here. Listen, Knight. We've got a bit of a problem on our hands now. There's been a fourth victim.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The lack of sleep didn't help Wendy one iota as she walked into the incident room to meet with Culverhouse in the light of the latest killing.
“Sorry, Knight. Unfortunately people aren't considerate enough to wait until daylight to get murdered.”
“Is it fresh?”
“No, she was killed the night before last. The pathologist reckons it was between seven in the evening and three in the morning.”
“Do we have a positive ID?”
“We do. Another easy one. It's starting to look like the killer wants these girls to be identified but I can't figure out for the life of me why. Grace Norris, an eighteen-year-old college student. A devout Catholic and local church volunteer. On the plus side: another Bible basher off our streets. On the other hand: bang goes my prossie theory.”
“So you're finally accepting that Nicole Bryant wasn't a prostitute?”
“No, I'm accepting that Grace Norris wasn't a prostitute.”
Wendy sighed and shook her head. “Definitely the same M.O.?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt. Absolutely identical.”
“So what the hell does link these women?”
“If I knew that, Knight, I wouldn't be farting about here at three o'clock in the bastard morning. I'd be tucked up in my jim-jams with a mug of Horlicks.”
Tell me about it, she wanted to say.
“Oh, but SOCO said there was one slight deviation from the M.O.”
“Right. So not absolutely identical after all?”
“Oh no – it was absolutely identical alright. But this time he raped her.”
“Raped her? He's not raped them before.”
“I know that, Knight. Hence the slight deviation.”
“But why now?”
“It looks as though he's stepping up his game. We've got some sort of cat and mouse game on our hands.”
“Did SOCO say whether intercourse occurred pre- or post-mortem?”
“If you mean did the bastard shag her when she was dead, we don't know yet. We're still waiting for forensics to get their turkey basters out.”
They examined the profiles of each victim, one by one. Their photographs were laid out on the table in front of them, a joyful family photo juxtaposed with the anguished death mask of each woman. Each letter of each of their names struck fear and anger into Wendy's gut.
ELLA BARRINGTON
MARIA PRESTO
N
NICOLE BRYANT
GRACE NORRIS
So their names were getting shorter. Ella Barrington: fourteen letters. Maria Preston: twelve letters. Nicole Bryant: twelve letters. Grace Norris: eleven letters. Would the next victim's name have ten letters in it? Would he finally stop killing once he'd found someone with a two-letter name? Wendy told herself this was a ridiculous theory and cursed her lack of sleep.
As the minutes and hours ticked by, conversation returned to Robert Ludford.
“Guv, I'm really not sure about this whole idea of getting involved with him. If he really is the murderer, he's stepped up his game big time with this one. I really don't think it's safe.”
“What other option do we have, Knight? We can't barge in and arrest him or search his house because the only evidence we have on him is that he once read a book on a similar type of knot that was used in the murders. Even that is circumstantial, but not circumstantial enough to be ignored. No, we can't do anything else but watch and observe Ludford. Conventional surveillance would be useless – especially as you and he are already close and he seems to want to confide in you and speak to you about the case.”
“What if he's just after information?”
“Then we'll feed him red herrings. We'll soon find out if he's linked, then.”
“I don't know, guv. I still don't feel safe.”
“You're a bastard police officer, Knight. You're not meant to feel safe. Case closed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was Tuesday evening when Wendy finally summoned up the courage to visit Ludford's flat. The recording equipment tucked safely in her bag, the microphone clipped snugly inside the flap, she pressed the doorbell and waited for him to come to the door.
When he did, he seemed to immediately register Wendy's unease.
“Everything OK, sweetheart?”
