Too Close For Comfort

by Adam Croft

  “Yes, sorry. Absolutely fine. Stressful day at work.”

  “Ah, the murders?”

  “Yes. There's been another victim.”

  “Oh?”

  “But I can't really talk about it. Can I come in? It's freezing out here.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Sorry. Do come in. I'll put the kettle on.”

  Settling on the armchair in the corner of the living room, Wendy felt this was the best spot to sit in, in order to get a good view of the whole room. If Ludford really was as dangerous as he seemed, she didn't want to leave anything to chance. She loosened the locks on the window behind her, saving herself a few valuable seconds should she need to make a quick escape.

  “What are you doing?”

  Wendy jumped. “Robert! Oh, sorry. Nothing.”

  “Were you trying to open the window?”

  “No. Erm... yes. I'm a bit hot.”

  “You were freezing cold not twenty seconds ago.”

  “I know. That time of the month – you know.” The line guaranteed to stop any conversation with a male dead in its tracks.

  “Do you want sugar?”

  Wendy remembered her mother and aunt giving her lots of old wives' tales and practical remedies for alleviating the symptoms of the menstrual cycle, but she didn't recall sugar being one.

  “In your tea. Do you want sugar?”

  “Oh. Yes, one please.”

  Wendy watched closely as Ludford returned to the kitchen. Not wanting to leave her seat for fear of him catching her mid-snoop yet again, Wendy scanned the room from her padded lookout post. As her crooked head guided her eyes along the spines of Ludford's books, she was jolted back upright by the ringing of a phone. She heard him answer.

  “Hello? Ah, Nigel! I've been meaning to...” Ludford's words trailed off as he kicked the door closed. The satisfying click of the latch in its socket triggered a sigh from Wendy. Realising that this was her chance, she jumped from her seat and skipped over to the side dresser, whereupon she commenced rifling through the drawers in search of any incriminating evidence.

  She knew she was looking for something which would either prove or disprove the theory that Ludford was involved with the serial killings – she still wasn't quite sure which – but she hadn't quite bargained on what stared back at her from the third drawer down on the left. Half of it glistened silver under the angle poise lamp; the other half glued to a filthy napkin with a dark reddish-brown dried adhesive. Of course, Wendy knew exactly what was staring back at her. You didn't become a DS without knowing a bloodstained knife when you saw one.

  Skipping back across the room, she grabbed her handbag, extracted a handkerchief of her own from within it and wrapped the soiled knife and attached handkerchief carefully, being careful not to make direct contact with it, before placing it in her bag and quietly closing the drawer.

  The rules of all good thriller films dictated that Ludford would walk through the door at that moment. In reality, it seemed like an age. Wendy sat back on her now-useless lookout spot, desperate to launch herself through the half-open window and run back home through the streets. Doing so would alarm Ludford and he'd soon find out she had the knife. Then who would be his next victim? No, it was too risky. She would have to sit it out and wait for him to come back into the room before making her excuses and leaving.

  When the age finally passed and Ludford returned to the living room, he froze on the spot.

  “Jesus, Wendy. You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you alright?”

  “I think... I don't really feel very well, actually.”

  “Oh. You must be coming down with a fever. That must be why you wanted the window open all of a sudden. Here, let me take your temperature.”

  Ludford walked over to Wendy to place his hand on her forehead.

  “No! I mean... I'm sure I'll be fine. I just need to go home and rest.”

  “OK, leave your car here and I'll give you a lift back.”

  “No, no. It's fine. I'm only round the corner. Please, I'll drive.”

  “Are you sure? You look terrible.”

  “I'll be fine.”

  Locking the car door immediately, Wendy started the car and headed straight for the station.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wendy struggled to get her breakfast down. Aside from the deep, nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, she supposed that if she managed to eat she'd have even more of a struggle trying to keep it down.

  “You OK, Wend? You look a little... shaken.”

  “I'm fine, Michael. Honestly.”

  “You sure? You were at Robert's last night, weren't you?”

  The name sent shivers down Wendy's spine.

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “Did anything happen? Be honest with me, Wend. You look terrible.”

  “Will people stop telling me I look terrible? I fucking feel terrible. Look, I'm in a situation which I really don't want to be in.”

  “What kind of situation? With Robert?”

  “Yes, with Robert.”

  “Tell me, Wend. Did he hurt you?”

  “Michael. If I tell you, you have to swear absolute secrecy. This is bigger than you could ever know and it is absolutely imperative that you do not breathe a word to a living soul. Do you understand?”

  “It goes without saying.”

  “Culverhouse... I... we, both think Robert Ludford may have something to do with the deaths that have occurred recently.”

  “You mean he knew them?”

  “I don't know. I think he knew one of them, at least. He went rather odd at the mention of Nicole Bryant on the TV the other night and now refuses to talk about the situation. Listen, Michael, we think he may have been directly involved.”

  “Directly? You mean he killed them?”

  “We can't be sure, but the clues are getting stronger. You remember I told you about the knots? Well, I... I found something in his flat last night.”

  “Oooh, not another book?” Michael said, sarcastically.

  “No. A blood-stained knife.”

  “Woah. OK, this is serious.”

  “Exactly. I took it straight to the station last night. Forensics are working on it as we speak. We should know later today whether the blood matches that of any of the victims.”

  “And if it does?”

  “If it does, we have a real problem.”

  Wendy felt all eyes on her as she walked through the police station later that morning. The overnight desk sergeant had clearly blabbed everything about the knife to her colleagues last night. Stupid bitch. Never trust a duty sergeant.

  Walking into the incident room, the eyes seemed to sharpen and focus on her even more tightly. Good news travels fast. Wendy could almost read their minds. Stupid cow, getting involved with a serial killer. How could she not have known? Some bloody cop she is. Couldn't even spot a serial killer in her own bed, the cheap slut.

  “Guv. I presume you're aware of last night's development.”

  “I think the King of sodding Spain is aware of last night's development, Knight. What in the name of hell were you playing at, giving a potential murder weapon to a part-time desk sergeant? You're fucking CID, for Christ's sake. I suppose you'll be filing your reports with the caretaker next?”

  “I'm sorry, guv. I panicked.”

  “You panicked? Fat fucking lot of good panicking at a blood-stained knife does when you're meant to be investigating a murder!”

  “With respect, guv, it's a little bit different this time.”

  “You're damn right it's a little bit different this time. This time you've been shagging the prime suspect!”

  “I didn't know he was a suspect at the time, guv. And we didn't shag.”

  “You didn't shag? Well what the bloody hell do you call it then?”

  “We made love.”

  The incident room tittered like a group of schoolchildren in a sex education class. Culverhouse's glowering eyes ensured it ceased as soon as it had starte
d.

  “Right. Well, whatever you want to bastard well call it, the fact of the matter is you've got some serious explaining to do to Commander Hawes if it turns out that one speck of one victim's blood is on that knife. The Commander already has my head on the chopping block and I will not allow your fucking bungee knickers to have me kicked off the case. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “Good. Next door. Morning briefing.”

  Wendy took in very little of that morning's briefing as her mind kept replaying the moment she found the knife in Ludford's drawer. The fear and trepidation. Now she felt anxious and nervous at what the future held. Her career was in jeopardy and she knew it. She supposed it didn't matter too much that she didn't take in a word of the briefing. Of course, she knew the whole story better than anyone. All the pieces were starting to come together. The seemingly random meeting in the car park, the books on knots, the evasive tone regarding Nicole Bryant and, of course, the knife.

  After the briefing, Wendy followed Culverhouse back into the incident room. A woman from the forensics lab was waiting for him. Culverhouse and the woman went into his office and closed the door. A few minutes later, the door opened and the woman from forensics left. As Wendy moved towards the door, it opened further and Culverhouse came into view. A lock of hair hung over his forehead, hooked into the creases that now appeared on his brow. Wendy knew exactly what had been said.

  “Wh... who... whose blood?”

  “Grace Norris. It's the murder weapon. Ludford is our killer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Wendy had finally managed to convince Culverhouse that if he must arrest Ludford at work, he should have him called to reception and do it there rather than cause a scene in front of the whole office. Reluctantly, he had agreed.

  “Mr Ludford? Yes, I can call him for you. Do you have an appointment?”

  “We don't need an appointment, love.”

  “Well, is he expecting you?”

  “I should imagine so, yes.”

  “Right. Well, I can certainly call him and ask if he's free.”

  The young, blonde-haired receptionist picked up the phone and dialled Ludford's extension.

  “Hello, Mr Ludford? I've got a gentlemen and a lady here who say you're expecting them. Oh, I see.” She turned to Culverhouse. “He says he isn't expecting any visitors today. What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn't. Tell him Wendy Knight is here.”

  “Oh, OK. He says the young lady with him is a Wendy Knight, Mr Ludford. Does that mean anything to you? OK, yes, I'll let them know.” She put the phone down. “Mr Ludford will be down in a few moments, if you'd like to take a seat.”

  “Don't worry about us, darling – we'll do this standing up. You can have the front row.”

  When Ludford finally emerged from the lift a minute or two later, he smiled at Wendy before noticing the man who was with her.

  “Hello, Wendy. Colleague of yours?”

  “Yes, Robert. This is a colleague of mine. Listen, I'm sorry for...”

  “Right, Ludford. You're nicked.”

  Ludford let out a nervous laugh.

  “Sorry – I'm what?”

  Wendy's head dropped as Culverhouse placed the handcuffs on Ludford.

  “You heard. I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Grace Norris. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “Murder?! Please tell me this is some sort of joke. I've never even heard of Grace Norris! Wendy? What's going on?”

  “I'm sorry, Robert.”

  ***

  Ludford's face was a picture of sterile depression as he sat, head bowed, in the police station's interview room.

  “This interview will commence at exactly fourteen hundred hours. Present are myself, DCI Jack Culverhouse, DS Wendy Knight and the suspect, Mr Robert Ludford. Mr Ludford, are you familiar with the name Grace Norris?”

  “I already told you this.”

  “For the benefit of the tape, Mr Ludford.”

  “No. I had never heard of Grace Norris until my arrest earlier this afternoon.”

  “I am now presenting the suspect with exhibit one. Mr Ludford, do you recognise this object?”

  Culverhouse placed the knife and handkerchief, sealed inside a zip-lock bag, onto the desk.

  “It's a knife.”

  “Yes. Is it your knife?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “You don't think so?”

  “I have a lot of knives for camping and cooking. I don't remember the aesthetics of each one.”

  “Let me be more specific. Did you use this knife to kill Grace Norris?”

  “No! I haven't killed anyone!”

  “Mr Ludford, this knife was found in a drawer in your flat. The blood on it belongs to Grace Norris.”

  “But... that's not possible! What do you mean it was found in my flat? You haven't searched my flat.”

  “Its discovery was incidental, Mr Ludford.”

  Wendy shuffled uncomfortably.

  “Incidental? You mean... Wendy? Did you have something to do with this?”

  Wendy remained silent. Culverhouse slowly rose to his feet and cleared his throat.

  “DS Knight, can I have a word with you outside for a moment?” He walked towards the door and turned back towards the tape machine. “14:02. DCI Culverhouse and DS Knight have left the room.”

  Wendy could still not lift her head as they stood outside the interview room.

  “You listen to me, Knight. You insisted on being in on this interview knowing damn well that you shouldn't be within five miles of this police station right now. The least you can do is co-operate with the bloody case, do you hear?”

  “It's awkward, guv.”

  “I know it's awkward, Knight. Serial killers aren't exactly fluffy bastard bunnies. I want professionalism and cooperation or I want you out, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  As they re-entered the room, Culverhouse barked his commentary back at the tape.

  “Wendy? Is it true? Did you find this knife in my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But... how?”

  Culverhouse interrupted. “Because you didn't hide it very well, Mr Ludford.”

  “I didn't hide it at all! It wasn't me!”

  “Do you live alone, Mr Ludford?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then who do you suppose put it there?”

  “Well, no-one could have. I don't even really have visitors. That is, apart from Wendy.”

  “For the benefit of the tape, Mr Ludford is referring to DS Knight. The particulars are covered within the case file. Mr Ludford, let me get this right. You form a relationship with a police officer in order to find out information about how close they are to finding out that you're going around killing young, innocent women. You ensure that she's the only other person allowed in your flat so when you're finally caught you can claim she's fitted you up. Is this starting to make sense?”

  “No! None of that is true at all!”

  “Tell me about the knots, Ludford.”

  “The knots?”

  “The knots.”

  Wendy's confidence had returned. “When I was at your flat you had two books open on the coffee table in your living room detailing the specific types of knot which were used to kill each of the murdered girls.”

  “I... I told you why I had those books open.”

  “For the benefit of the tape, Mr Ludford told me he was looking something up for a friend.”

  “Yes. That's right.”

  “Which friend?”

  “I can't say.”

  “We can always add obstruction of justice to your growing list of charges, if you wish.”

  “Alright, alright. It was an old Army friend of mine.”

  “Army friend? You never told m
e you were in the Army.”

  Culverhouse interrupted again. “Why did you leave the Army, Mr Ludford?”

  Robert Ludford let out a loud laugh, his shoulders bouncing rhythmically.

  “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I got sick of death.”

  “If you'll forgive me, Mr Ludford, all the evidence points to the contrary. What was your friend's name?”

  “Geoff Casey.”

  “And where does Mr Casey live?”

  “In a town called Woodend.”

  “Would you care to enlighten us as to where that is?”

  “Just outside Christchurch.”

  “Christchurch in New Zealand?”

  “Yes. There's no way Geoff Casey is your murderer, if that's what you're thinking. As unlikely as it sounds, it's a horrible coincidence, Inspector. Bowline knots aren't exactly rare, but Geoff remembered that I was quite adept with them during our Army days and asked me how to tie one. He lives near the coast and had landed himself a day's sailing with a potential lady friend. He's the same silly old sod he always used to be – didn't have a clue how to tie a bowline knot, never mind how to steer the boat. I couldn't help him with that bit, of course.”

  “An admirable story. Mr Ludford. Do you have one for how the blood-stained murder weapon miraculously appeared in your drawer yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well that's a shame. For you, at least.”

  Wendy spoke up. “How about your reaction to the mention of Nicole Bryant on the television the other night? You wouldn't discuss her case at all, despite being quite interested in the other victims.”

  “Some might say too interested.” Culverhouse said.

  “This isn't going to look good at all, I'm afraid.”

  “None of it's looking particularly good right now, Mr Ludford.”

  “Look, I did something very bad and very foolish but I certainly didn't kill anyone. A couple of months before I met you, Wendy, I was approached by Nicole Bryant in a bar in town. She was there with a few friends and they were all pretty drunk. By the end of the night her friends had gone off and left her so I offered to walk her home to make sure she was safe and didn't get hurt. I didn't see any harm in it. When we got back to hers, she grabbed me on the doorstep and tried to kiss me. I pulled away and she told me she wanted to have sex. I told her I couldn't as I didn't know her and I had half a feeling she wasn't even an adult. The next day she was waiting for me when I got home from work. I have no idea how she found out where I lived. She told me that if I didn't give her £250 in cash, she'd go to the police and say I'd raped her. That isn't something someone in my profession can risk, and I just panicked. I gave her the cash and hoped she'd disappear. A few days later she sent me a page torn out of a jeweller's catalogue with a hideously expensive bracelet circled in black marker pen.”