The Lady in the Street

by Emmy Ellis

  “Stop,” she said. Eight-fifteen. “Now, no one entered that alley from the front, so they had to have come from Den’s or the ice cream shop beside it.” She peered at the screen. “Woman my fucking arse.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The screen was paused on the image of a man, a roll of something or other balanced on his shoulder, a backpack in his hand. The colour of his top wasn’t discernible on the black-and-white footage, but it was a dark one. His hair, short and clipped, was also dark.

  “Are we looking at two people here?” Andy asked. “A woman for Felicity, a man for Den and Mark?”

  “Fuck knows, but our job has just got a whole lot more interesting.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the last day ever of secondary school, at the end of the day, he stared at Mark across the playground. Mark had been iffy with him lately, as though something was up. What was it, though?

  Fucked if I know.

  He scuffed his shoe on the asphalt, displacing a few errant stones, and told himself to just go over there and ask. But what if Mark told him to knob off? He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he did. Mark was the only proper friend he had, so getting into anything with him on the argument front wasn’t something he thought he could hack.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered and made his way over.

  Everyone milled about, showing off their spare uniform shirts signed by people they liked and some they didn’t. Black marker pens had sold out in Rymans because of all the year elevens buying them, which meant he’d had to make do with a dumb blue biro. Not that anyone had asked him to sign their shirt. He’d basically had to force himself on them, make them let him. All he wanted was to belong, to be as important as the other kids, but it seemed Eddie was right: You’re nothing, kid. Nothing at all.

  Well, he’d show Eddie. He’d be somebody one day, just you wait and bloody see.

  He got closer to Mark, and someone jostled him, that Benny kid, almost sending him flying onto his arse. Annoyed, he shoved Benny in the back as he walked off with his friend, and Benny sprawled onto the playground, signed shirt floating off, hands splayed flat on the tarmac.

  “Stupid prick,” he said.

  Benny looked over his shoulder then turned away, pushing himself to his feet. Ready for a fight, was he? No. Benny strolled on, head bent, his mate scooping up the shirt and chasing after him.

  Enough was enough, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to take crap from any of these wankers anymore. He wasn’t a schoolboy now, he was on his way to becoming a bloke, and once he was, everyone had better watch the fuck out.

  They’d soon see not to mess with him.

  Mark glanced down, like he didn’t want anything to do with the incident—or him. What was his problem?

  Ask him outright, go on.

  “Look, man, what’s the deal?” he asked.

  Mark moved away from the lads standing around him, jerking his head to indicate they should be alone. “I can’t hang around with you, that’s what.”

  Frowning, he didn’t know what to say. What could he say except, “Why?”

  “Dad says you’re a bad influence—or you’re going to be.” Mark shrugged, his cheeks going a tad red.

  That bloody Den…

  “I don’t get it,” he said, eyeing Mark for signs of him caving, for him to smile and say he’d only been pissing about. “What have I done for your old man to think that?” Apart from all the little jobs he’d been doing for Eddie… Had Den found out? Had Eddie bragged about it in the pub or something?

  “Don’t know,” Mark said, “but I’d better do as he says. I’m going to college then uni. I can’t have my future fucked up.”

  “But I won’t fuck it up. You’re my mate. Why would I do that?”

  “Look, sod off, will you? This is hard enough as it is.”

  “So I’m meant to just accept it, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that. We’re going in different directions. We…”

  He tuned him out. Those were Den’s words floating out of Mark’s mouth. What had happened to their pact about always sticking together? What about buddies for life, eh?

  “Don’t do this,” he said, waiting for Mark to start laughing, anything to show this wasn’t real.

  He didn’t.

  “I can’t go against my dad,” Mark said. “We’ve had a proper chat, and it’s important I don’t mess my life up.”

  “Come on, change your mind.” He hated the way he sounded all pleading and shit.

  “No.”

  Mark scowled at him then ran off.

  Mark had said no.

  God. He was going to have to pay for that.

  Words echoed in his head, Eddie gassing on about bad things happening. The thing was, he didn’t know what the bad things were.

  He’d ask Eddie.

  On the way home, he dumped his shirt in a bin, wanting nothing to do with any of the people who’d scribbled their names on it, no visual memories. He had enough of them in his head, and seeing the shirt would just rile him up.

  At home, he found Mum passed out drunk on the sofa, her mouth open, spittle dripping over her chin. Litter was dotted all around—they’d forgotten what a bloody bin was for. He sighed and went to the kitchen, getting a black bag out of the cupboard under the sink. He cleaned up, shoving beer cans, crisp packets, and small Bacardi bottles in it, disgusted by the pigsty this place had become. He vaguely remembered it being tidy once, and clean, when Dad was here and before the drink and Eddie had tumbled onto the scene.

  He wouldn’t mind if he got a bit of pocket money for being the maid, but it seemed it was his job now. Talking of jobs, he had another one to do later for Eddie, although he’d yet to find out what it was.

  Some said if you talked about the Devil he’d appear, and there he was, Eddie, walking down the stairs in nothing but brown checked pyjama bottoms, scratching his crotch. He hadn’t shaved for ages, and an unkempt beard had sprouted, some hairs longer than others.

  “All right, you little fucker?” Eddie asked, walking past and into the kitchen. As usual, he hadn’t noticed the mess had been binned.

  Anger burned inside. He followed Eddie and shut the kitchen door. “You know you said bad things happen if people say no? What are they? The bad things, I mean.”

  Eddie sneered. “If you say no, I’ll kill you. That plain enough?”

  Christ.

  To show the answer didn’t faze him, even though it bleedin’ well did, he said, “What’s today’s job?” He opened the back door and tossed the rubbish bag out, then closed it and turned the taps on ready for doing the washing up. He couldn’t let Eddie know he’d scared him with what he’d said—Eddie would use it against him.

  “Den’s again.” Eddie lit a ciggie then switched the kettle on.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Mark’s told me we’re not allowed to be mates anymore. Den said I’m trouble.”

  “Well, he’s not wrong there, is he.” Eddie chuckled and held his hand out for a clean cup.

  Teeth gritted, he washed it and passed it over.

  Eddie didn’t bother wiping the bubbles off with a tea towel. He plonked a teabag inside. “You could still go. It’s summer. His place will be packed. Do what you always do and scoot into the storeroom.”

  “I don’t think he’ll even want me in the shop.” He scrubbed at a plate, thick with sauce from last night’s dinner, a stew he’d made that Mum hadn’t eaten, preferring to stick to her liquid diet. “What about somewhere else?”

  “No, got to be Den’s. I have people waiting on the fags. They’ve already paid me. Do it just once more, then I’ll think of someplace else.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, but he knew what Eddie would say to that. What he always did. And now he knew what the bad thing was, he wasn’t about to argue.

  “All right. I’ll go now.”

  He left the plates to soak and walked out, heading for Den’s, thinking Eddie had bet
ter hurry up in getting dressed if he was going to make it round the back of Den’s yard in time to collect the goods.

  Mark had told him someone kept stealing cigarettes and that Den would be putting ‘measures’ in place, whatever the fuck they were. He didn’t care so long as he could get it over and done with.

  He walked past Den’s and, as predicted, it teemed with people. Inside the shop, he did what he always did and crouched amongst the shoppers, then made his way to the storeroom.

  The door was locked.

  So that was what Den had decided on, was it?

  He left the shop and thought about what to do next. He pinned his sights on the shop a few doors down that sold all manner of junk, an idea coming to mind. A good one, if he played it right.

  Strolling in, he mingled with the holidaymakers, reaching out for a plastic mask, an old witch one with straggly grey hair and a wart on the end of her nose. He stuffed it under his top along with a black toy gun, then acted like he was browsing, instead checking he wasn’t being watched.

  Back outside, he waited down the alley. An hour passed with him mapping out how he’d do what he had to do, and his phone beeped with a message: Where are you?

  Christ, he’d forgotten Eddie would have been out the back all this time.

  He replied: I’m down the alley. Waiting for everyone to leave. Storeroom locked.

  Eddie’s reply was swift: Fuck.

  Shrugging, he slid the mask on, and something happened. He felt different. Stronger. Better.

  He could get used to this.

  He put the gun in his pocket and peered around the edge of the building. Den was talking to some woman and her two kids outside, all decked out in summer gear, the late-afternoon sun beaming down on the children’s red baseball caps. Their mum waved and walked off, and Den went inside, the door slowly sailing closed. Den never shut it in the summer, jamming a wedge beneath it to keep it open, so now was the time to act—Den was obviously ready to lock up.

  He raced along, slammed his palms on the door, and pushed it inwards as Den moved to twist the key. Holding the gun up, he waggled it about, thinking it looked well menacing, and advanced on a retreating Den whose face was a bloody picture. Terrified, he was. What a gimp.

  “Open the storeroom,” he said, all growly, sounding nothing like himself and loving it.

  Den raised one hand and with the other pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket. Why wasn’t he shouting for Mrs Simons or Mark, the stupid bastard?

  Den unlocked the door and shoved it open.

  Gun steady, he jabbed it towards him and said, “Get in there.”

  Den obeyed.

  Taking his chance, he whacked the old boy on the temple with his elbow, sending him sprawling into a stack of boxes. One came down and smacked him on the head, and it had to have hurt, because the wording on the side said: JACOB’S JAR SWEETS.

  Ouch then.

  He held back a laugh at Den out cold on the floor, his face partially hidden by the box, and snatched the keys out of Den’s limp grasp. He opened the back door and lobbed out boxes of cigarettes until there were none left. That’d serve Den right for trying to stop him from nicking them.

  Outside, he made trips back and forth across the yard, tossing the boxes over the wall, then climbing it and landing on the other side to help Eddie put them in the van. Eddie stared at him as though he’d seen a damn ghost—the mask had obviously thrown him for a second.

  He climbed inside the back and closed the doors, and Eddie got in the front and sped away through the streets of the estate where no one told anyone anything and everyone kept their mouths shut. Sweat covered his face, and he wrenched the mask off, instantly feeling like his old self again. Unwanted. Unimportant.

  The next day, it was on the local radio that Den had been assaulted and robbed. The police were on the lookout for whoever had done it, and the woman who’d been talking to Den with her kids had turned around to glance back over her shoulder and spotted an old lady entering the shop, her grey hair long and straggly, her clothes similar to a school uniform.

  Old lady. He laughed at that.

  Masks would come in handy for future jobs, even though he’d never been caught for anything before when he hadn’t had one on, which just went to show how well Eddie had trained him.

  So I’m good for something then.

  * * * *

  He was good for something all right. Killing and making people realise if they said no, he’d make sure the bad thing happened. Who had they thought they were, treating him the way they had?

  It was past midnight, and he couldn’t get to sleep. His mojo was off. Mark being there earlier had tossed him into a whirlpool of doubt, although in the end, a deviation in the plan hadn’t completely put him off his stride. He’d dealt with the new occurrence swiftly, and it had made the local news at ten on the telly, the bloke behind the desk on the screen saying a policeman close to the source had said the three murders were abhorrent and the killer would be caught quickly.

  Dream on.

  He’d resisted going back to the scene. He imagined, once the coppers had turned up, that all those nosy bastards living in the flats above the shops would have come out to see what was going on. They’d have been questioned, no doubt, but no one would have seen him. The alley was too dark, and as for those on the estate out the back, folks there tended to mind their own business, just like they had when he’d been a kid.

  That was handy.

  He thought about the bitch he was going to murder next. She had plans to be at The Villager’s Inn on a hen night. He’d heard about it the other week while having a bevvy in there. She’d be pissed up, her brain a bit fuddled, and that was a good thing.

  Either way, she’d better enjoy the evening, because it was going to be her last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sleep had been interrupted with bad dreams. Helena had stared at the ceiling in the dark, willing morning to come. The last thing she’d wanted was to visit the gym before work, but she’d told Andy she’d help to get him in shape, and that was what she’d do. He’d made sure to run at a slower speed on the treadmill this time, so there were no mishaps for her to laugh at, and they’d made it to the station by eight to begin work.

  Ol and Phil had been shocked at waltzing in thinking they’d only have Felicity’s murder to deal with. The looks on their faces when Helena had told them about Den and Mark had been a picture.

  With all the information related to them, she set them to it, then walked over to Phil. “How did it go last night?” she asked.

  He put his pen down and turned to face her. “Bloody excruciating.”

  “What do you mean?” She crouched beside his chair.

  “Yarworth went on about the Walker case as if he’d solved the bleeding thing himself. I mean, it’s not like us four worked our bollocks off or anything, is it.” He shook his head and huffed out a breath of exasperation. “It boiled my piss, to be honest. I was watching everyone else while he was talking, and they seemed to think he was a bit of a dick. Let’s face it, he sits in that office all day doing sod all, then has a quick read of the files once we’re done and signs them off.”

  “Better than him being in our faces, believe me,” she said. “Can you imagine working closely with him?”

  “No, I don’t want to even think about it.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

  Helena laughed. “You and me both. So, what about the people who want new jobs? What were they like?”

  “They were all nice enough, but the one who stuck out for me was a bloke called Evan. He knows what he’s about, and I think he’ll be a good fit. He mentioned to me he thought Yarworth was an ‘up his own arse prat’, so that sealed it.”

  “Did you tell Yarworth Evan would be right for us?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be joining us next month. He’s wanting to finish helping out on a case in Essex first, which tells me he’s as dedicated as we are.”

  “Brilliant. Learn anything about
him?”

  “He’s married, got two small kids, one of each. Think he said they’re five and seven. His wife’s a teacher, so she’ll be starting at Smaltern Primary. Year two, I’m sure he said.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks for going. And it was a good job you did, really, what with Mark and Den.”

  “I’m shocked,” he said. “My brother went to school with Mark, and he’s a good sort. And Den’s like everyone’s grandad, know what I mean?”

  “Yep. It wasn’t pleasant to see, I have to say. Right, I’ll leave you be.”

  The day passed with everyone poking into the victims’ backgrounds and ringing their friends and family. Helena thought about visiting Natasha Simons again but decided to phone the FLO, Dave Lund, instead.

  She went into her office about half four to do it. “You still there?”

  “No, I stayed for most of the morning and talked through all that will happen next. She’s formally identifying the day after tomorrow as Zach is still working on them—I rang him to check. All she told me was that Mark and Den were lovely people and she had absolutely no idea why anyone would do this.”

  “Same as what she told me,” she said, “which doesn’t help us at all. Anyway, thanks for that. I’ll give Zach a bell now.”

  She did, and it rang for ages. She assumed he was elbow deep in blood and guts and was about to hang up when he answered.

  “Hey, you,” he said. “I just had to get the gloves off and wash my hands.”

  “Nice. I’m ringing about work. I know I shouldn’t bug you when you haven’t sent any findings back yet, but we’ve had a frustrating day checking into things and getting nothing except how nice Mark and Den were. No one saw anything in the shop street, and those in the estate out the back haven’t given us anything to work with either. We’re stuck.”

  “Well, it’s the same killer as far as I can tell,” Zach said. “The knife wounds resemble those of Felicity, and with both Mark and Den, there are twenty-three.”

  “That’s just bloody creepy,” she said. “Someone’s counting them as they stab? No way that can be a coincidence.”