by Emmy Ellis
“I thought the same. And they’d have to be controlled if they can attack so violently and not lose count. Scary really.”
“Too right. We found out something interesting last night which flushes your theory down the shitter.”
“What’s that then?”
“It might be two killers.”
“Ah, but they’d have to be using the same type of knife, which is a stretch of the imagination. So how did you discover that?”
“Good old CCTV. There’s a camera installed on the back of one of the shops. A male walked down the alley at the right time carrying a roll of something and a backpack. No one else went down there before or after, so it can only be the person we’re looking for.”
“Man and woman team?” he asked.
“Maybe. Could be a couple with a shared grudge. The thing is, that’s a lot of trust. They’ve got to be totally sure of each other to be doing this.” She paused to think. “Or one of them is forcing the other to do it, and that could get messy later on down the line if the unwilling party decides to say something to a mate. Anyway, I’ve wandered off course. Do you have anything else?”
“Den’s stomach contents contained a small amount of undigested fish and chips, so he hadn’t had much time to eat before the killer arrived. Say he ate about five o’clock, that means the killer hung around for a while afterwards if the food was still in Den’s stomach.”
“Hmm, the suspect was in the alley at eight-fifteen, so he left near enough straight after killing Mark. Why would he want to hang around after stabbing Den? Unless he knew Mark was due… So it could be someone who knows people’s movements.”
“I assume so, but that’s your side of things.”
“What about Mark’s stomach?”
“His food was also undigested, and at a guess—I won’t know until it’s analysed—he had pasta and minced beef. I see so many types of food during PMs that I’m beginning to recognise the meals. Good job it doesn’t put me off my dinner really.”
She closed her eyes as an image of spaghetti Bolognese entered her head. “God. It’s so bloody awful. He ate that not knowing it was his last meal.”
“Unless we’re talking being told we’re going to die at a certain time, none of us know. That’s why it’s always best to have a pudding.”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Except we missed out on our dessert last night.” Crap, she wondered whether that had come off as an innuendo so gabbled on, “I quite fancied the apple crumble and custard myself.”
He chuckled. “And there was me thinking you meant something else entirely.”
Oh bugger. How to respond? “Um, maybe next time.” That was all right, wasn’t it? Not too forward?
“I’m joking. I won’t push you into anything. Not after…” He cleared his throat.
No, not after Uthway and his bully boy had violated her, but she had to impress upon him how things were with her now. “Oh, I’m fine. I can differentiate, thankfully, and I’m lucky I can. Some people…” She blushed. “I mean, I don’t associate…”
“I know what you’re saying. Whenever you’re ready. It’s still early days yet. I don’t make a habit of, you know, doing that straight away. It’d be nice to get to know each other better first.”
“I don’t jump into bed with people either, and yes, it’ll be nice to take it slow.” She’d told herself when she’d ended it with Marshall that she wouldn’t see anyone else for a long time, but then Zach had made it clear he liked her, and she’d liked him for so long that being with him didn’t feel wrong. “If there’s nothing else…”
“Only that if you’re not too busy, I’d like you to come to mine for dinner tonight. You can have apple crumble, although it’ll be Waitrose’s finest, and I’ll pour some Ambrosia on top. If I try to make the custard from scratch, it’ll turn out lumpy. I’m crap at cooking.”
“What time?” The day had been a bust, so none of her team would be working late. They’d look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. Maybe something would jump out at them then, but she doubted it.
“Seven? I’m about to wrap up here. I finished Felicity’s PM and did partials on Mark and Den, so I’ll complete theirs tomorrow.”
“Okay, I just have one more person to ring, then I’m calling it a day myself. See you later.”
She rang Tom in forensics.
“All right, guv?” he said, chipper, a laugh lingering in his voice, as though there’d been some joke or other going on before he’d answered.
“Yes, you?”
“Fine, thanks. What can I do for you?”
“Has anyone had a chance to look at Mark’s phone today?”
“As a matter of fact, I did it and was about to send you a report. No suspicious calls in or out. In the past three months they’ve mainly been to Den or his wife and a couple of work colleagues. No weird messages. Facebook and Messenger were logged in, and again, nothing dodgy. Just your average man’s phone log, I’m afraid. I’ve got the messages and whatnot saved in a file for you, so I’ll send it your way. I’ve sent the phone off for further analysis with digital forensics.”
“Okay, thanks. Ol can go through your file tomorrow—not saying you need your work checked or anything.”
“Nope, always best to have another set of eyes. A few of us went through the photos as well from the three death locations. Blood spatter is consistent with a right-handed person—think I mentioned that before regarding Felicity. And as I said then, we’d be able to determine height, and that’s been aided with Mark’s scene especially. We estimate around five-ten, although if the woman has heels on, that will make a difference.”
“Not sure it’s just a woman now,” she said and explained what they’d discovered.
“Well, if it’s two people, then they’re exactly the same height, we’re positive about that.”
Helena had a headache coming on. There was so much information, yet at the same time, no definite clues. There had to be hundreds of people in Smaltern that tall, so it narrowed absolutely fuck all down. Typical and par for the course.
“Anything else?” She rubbed her brow, trying to ease the sudden pounding.
“Yes, and this is just as weird as the Walker case. I did wonder whether news leaking out about the gifts being left behind had given this killer some ideas.”
She was annoyed about the leak. Someone from the department had tipped off a journalist, specifically mentioning the taunting clues the killer had planted.
Her stomach clenched. “Oh God, what…?”
“We didn’t notice it before because there was so much blood, but at every scene, there’s a little picture that’s been drawn on the wall.”
“What sort of picture?”
“A witch.”
“Pardon?”
“Yep, a wart on its nose and everything. The only thing it doesn’t have is a pointed hat. Have you watched Snow White?”
She nodded then remembered he wouldn’t have seen her doing it. “Yes.”
“Like the witch in that.”
Helena frowned. “I wonder what that’s supposed to mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but it was done in pencil, not that it helps any.”
“Were the drawings any good?”
“No, they’re like a kid would draw or someone who isn’t too hot at art. You can see what the images are, just that they’re no Monet. There’s also the number twenty-three written above the witches.”
“That matches the amount of stabs each victim had. Christ.” Who the hell were they dealing with?
“There are some right nutters out there. I’ll send those pictures over as well so you can see.”
“Thanks.”
After saying their goodbyes, she put the phone on her desk and pondered what he’d told her. A witch? She accessed her emails so she could get Tom’s as soon as it came in. It took about five minutes of waiting, which seemed endless and was bloody frustrating, then she saved the files and set them to print. Once
they’d slid out into the tray, she got up and had a look. She skimmed through the typed data first, which confirmed what Tom had said, then she stared at the witch images.
Tom had sent two lots. One set showed them on the walls at the locations. He’d drawn a red circle around them to show just how small they were. He’d also blown them up. They were almost identical, save for a bigger nose in one and a wonky eye in another. Given their actual size, it was no wonder they hadn’t been spotted until a closer inspection had been carried out on the photos. They were no bigger than a penny.
She took them into the incident room and pinned one of the larger ones up on the whiteboard.
“Guys, we’ve got a right weirdo on our hands.” She pointed to the witch. “This was drawn on the walls. What do you make of that?”
“Bloody hell,” Phil blurted. “What would that even mean?”
Ol squinted at the picture. “That they’re an actual witch? That someone in their life is a witch? God knows.”
“It’s something to think about. Ol, you can have a look into witches tomorrow, see if there’s anything significant. A bit like the Uthway case and those carved symbols. The witch itself may not be what’s important.” Helena tapped the whiteboard. “Tom wondered whether the killer is copying the Walker case and leaving these behind as clues, although they’re not telling us much at all.” She went on to tell them what Zach and Tom had said. “So, if it’s two killers, they’re the same height and have identical knives—bit of a stretch?”
“Maybe the lady in the street has nothing to do with this,” Andy said. “She may well have tried Felicity’s front door, then went off when she couldn’t get in. An opportunist thief. Someone else could have come along straight after and killed Felicity—the man.”
“That doesn’t sound plausible either, but if there are two people, we still need to find the woman regardless. If she’s going about trying to get into houses, she needs to be stopped. However, our main priority is the killer, so I’ll give Louise a ring in a minute and let her know to pass it on to uniform that a woman may be breaking and entering.” Her headache throbbed. “Look, it’s getting on, and we’re all tired. We have nothing really so far apart from a fucking witch, so shut down and go home. We’ll begin all over again tomorrow.”
* * * *
Helena set her alarm on her phone to wake her so she’d have time for a quick shower before going to Zach’s. She needed a power nap, and it might get rid of her banging migraine, something ibuprofen had failed to do. She closed her eyes, that damn witch image looming in her mind, and wished she could shut work off once she stepped foot inside her house. She couldn’t, not unless she had company, so the sooner she went to Zach’s, the better.
Sleep came, and God, she sank into it more than willingly.
* * * *
The driver stopped the van and climbed in the back. Helena was ready for him, standing, feet planted apart. He stared at her and laughed, then aimed a gun at her. She glared back, gauging whether she could scoot past him and out before he had time to turn around and shoot her.
He stepped forward so fast and punched her in the face she had no time to react. Down she went, her tailbone smacking onto the floor, and she scrabbled to get upright, but he moved towards her and bent over, ripping her clothes off while she tried to fight him. He grabbed her wrists with one meaty hand. She kicked out, missing hitting him completely, incensed that she was naked and vulnerable. With his free hand, he brought something close to her arm. She didn’t glance in that direction, instead looking up at him, trying to work out what he was thinking. His poker face was professional, giving nothing away, so she glanced to the side.
A sharp pain, then she registered a syringe, the needle sliding into her muscle. An almost instant lethargy overtook her, and while she sat there dumbly, he secured her wrists with rope in front of her, then tied on a blindfold.
Hauled to her feet, she stumbled as he dragged her, terrified at not being able to see and how quickly her body seemed to be sinking into nothingness. He lifted her, slinging her over his shoulder. The sea, it whooshed, and gulls let out piercing cries, and there was the sound of crunching gravel followed by the shush of feet on grass.
A creak, a whine, and she imagined a door had opened. She had no energy to hit his back or kick his legs, hanging limply as she was, her mind growing sluggish.
He grunted, and she sensed they were moving skywards, perhaps up some steps. The clank of his feet on what might be metal filtered into her foggy brain. That creak rang out again, and he walked a few paces, then she was thrown down, the surface hard on her outer thigh and hip, bits of grit digging into her skin.
She wanted to ask where she was, why she’d been brought here, but he wouldn’t have answered—not if he was one of Uthway’s men. He’d have been told to take her wherever and keep an eye on her. Especially with her being a copper.
He kicked her in the side, and she couldn’t even scream in protest. All that emerged was a low groan, and he laughed, long and hard. It sent her nerves skittering, and she shivered, her teeth chattering.
“If you think that’s bad, bitch, you just wait and see what comes next.” His accent was from down south—he was a Londoner, perhaps.
Her stomach muscles spasmed, bringing on nausea, and she thought she might be sick. “I… What… Help…” God, she sounded such a useless moron. Annoyance surged through her, but she couldn’t do anything with it. She was pissed off with herself for even going to Lime Street alone, like she thought she could take them on and arrest them all.
Stupid, stupid cow.
“Be quiet,” he said. “You’re boring me.”
She sensed him come closer and held her breath. He grabbed her beneath her armpits and scooted her backwards, more grit scratching her bum and the backs of her thighs, then he let her go. Four footsteps echoed, and she guessed he’d walked away, maybe to her right. The air seemed thicker there somehow, like he was so close the heat from him touched her.
Hands pushed on her chest, and she fell backwards, her body as heavy as her mind, and cold walls pressed onto her arms, as though she sat in a corner. She managed to heft her knees up, and she would have hugged them if her body responded to the demand, but it didn’t, so she just flopped.
“The boss’ll be here in a minute. Best you think about what you’re going to say to him. He’s not happy you were spying.”
She had no doubt he meant Uthway, and seeing him again wouldn’t be pleasant, not now the tables had turned. It wouldn’t be her interviewing him with arrogance this time but him doing it to her. She’d had him in for questioning recently, her asking him about his activities but, as she should have known, his alibis had been watertight. He wouldn’t do the grunt work himself in picking up women for his business. She’d been stupid to think she could get something out of him. She should have left it, not giving him any clue they were after him.
Another stupid decision on her part.
The faint crunch of car tyres rolling over cement filtered in, and her stomach lurched. She swallowed down bile. God, there was that horrible creak again, and she knew someone else had come in. Light from the open door filtered through the blindfold, but she couldn’t make anything specific out, her eyes watery and unfocused.
Footsteps clunked. One, two, three, four.
They stopped.
Silence. It seemed to stretch on forever. Breathing. Heavy breathing. Theirs? Hers? She couldn’t tell.
“So it is you.” Uthway. “You daft slag pig. I wonder…what am I going to do with you now?”
Chapter Fifteen
While he waited for the hen party to wind down, he sat in the corner of The Villager’s Inn like he did most nights and thought about why he’d done what he had after he’d offed Den. He should have just left straight away and gone for Mark tonight, but something had compelled him to stay.
As he’d known it would.
The flat above the shop had been a second home of sorts, considering the amo
unt of times he’d been there as a kid. His best memories were of having tea with Mark, Mrs Simons bustling about in the kitchen, then fussing over them at the dining table, something Mum never did. She was more than likely slumped over it than anything. He’d stayed to play until about eight on those nights, Mrs Simons worrying about him walking home alone when he’d been five or so, but he’d told her it’d be all right. Life outside in the dark wasn’t a problem for him after a few years, seeing as Eddie shoved him out in the garden on the evenings when people came round to visit, buying all the stuff he’d nicked. He hadn’t wanted Eddie coming to collect him from Mark’s, and Eddie wouldn’t anyway, even if Mrs Simons rang him to ask the dodgy wanker to do it.
He’d have most likely told her to fuck off.
“I just don’t know what’s got into Regina, letting that lad roam about,” Mrs Simons had said to Den once, whispering in the kitchen.
Listening in the hallway, he’d pressed himself against the wall, his ears burning.
“She’s turned into a right old pisshead.” Den had given his usual grunt.
Den had kissed Mum on the mouth just after Dad had left. Was that a secret? He reckoned so, because once they realised he’d spotted them down by the racks of crisps in the shop on that summer holiday morning, they’d sprang apart, and Mum had gone red.
Den hadn’t liked him after that.
“She doesn’t care for that boy like she should,” Den had continued, “and that’s a wicked shame, but I still can’t take to him. Sorry, but I can’t help it. Maybe she feels the same way about him now. She’s always been a bit harried, scatterbrained, but now she’s plain strung out and off her rocker. I don’t want anything to do with her. Did you hear about her in the supermarket the other day? Arguing about the price of a grape? One grape. Mrs Jacobs told me all about it. Said Regina made a right old fuss, and she stank of booze, swaying on her feet and all sorts.”
“God, that poor child,” Mrs Simons had said. “Surely there’s more we can do to help.”
