As he jogged he tried to apply logic to the situation, in an attempt to work out what on earth was going on. First there had been the sexy underwear left on the bed. Then a single red rose on Penny’s pillow. And now payments on his credit card that he didn’t have a clue what they were for. Picking up his pace, he ran along the pavement and could feel the sweat building on his brow. But he could also feel drops of sweat popping open on his back as though his skin were on fire, and the sweat was trying to douse the blaze and failing. He stopped running, put his hands on his legs and panted. Looking up, he saw he was by a corner shop, and fumbling in his pocket for some change, he went in and purchased a bottle of water. He stood leaning against the outside of building as he emptied the half litre bottle.
He’d been putting it off, but now he had no choice but to make a decision and act on it. He must go to the police. Someone was messing with his life and he couldn’t stand by any longer. He looked up and down the road seeing nothing more than a normal street in London, populated by people who were a colourful range of ethnicity. He used to feel safe in the streets around his home, but now he scanned the face of everyone who walked past him. But no one was paying him any attention that he could see. He turned his back on the people and stared at his reflection in the shop window. His hair was matted with sweat, his face red with exertion and fear and a muscle twitched in his thigh. He was just about to turn away and return home when he caught sight of a man reflected in the window. He was dressed similarly to Tyler in a singlet and joggers, but he didn’t seem sweaty or frightened, as Tyler was. He looked calm, his head slightly tilted on one side as he watched Tyler. A look of wry amusement crossed the man’s features. Features that were identical to Tyler’s own.
Tyler whirled around, focused on the point across the street where the man had been standing. But there was no one there. The man dressed in running gear, who had looked exactly like Tyler, had disappeared.
28
…It appeared his brother was doing well for himself. He had traced Tyler’s life from school, to university, to work. It was once Tyler had started secondary school at the age of 11 that he had begun to show his potential. From information gleaned from the computer system of the prestigious school Tyler had attended, the boy had excelled at mathematics, just like his brother. However, instead of showing an interest in computers, he had leaned towards finance. A budding businessman, he’d joined the school’s Small Business Club and learned all about product design, manufacture, sales and marketing. But according to written reports from his teachers, the London Stock Market was what had fascinated Tyler.
His A level examinations completed and passed with straight A’s, his university education began at The London School of Economics. After graduating with a first class honours degree, Tyler had worked for a while as a stock market dealer, before joining a respected hedge fund firm. Once he’d settled-in there, it seemed Tyler had begun to show his flair for recruiting rich clients and then making them, and his firm, even richer. Tyler had profited as well, of course, resulting in his being a bit of a catch as a bachelor about town. It hadn’t been long before he’d been snared by the lovely Penny.
As Tyler had continued his Midas-type meteoric rise in fortunes, he had done the same, but in a very much more subversive manner. Elusive and enigmatic, he’d emerged from his self-imposed exile like a butterfly from a chrysalis. The difference between the two brothers was not external, but very much internal. Tyler, a warm hearted family man was a world away from his darker, moody brother. Temperamental and inclined to crush those who got in his way, he looked just as beautiful as Tyler on the outside, whilst rarely showing those around him who he really was on the inside.
The only people who saw his sadistic, evil streak, were the girls who acted as his escorts. He was able to indulge his truly atrocious behaviours with those girls he paid handsomely to spend time with him. Every one of them had resembled his mother. Some had fought back and escaped into the darkness of the night and he’d never seen them again. No doubt they’d chalked the bad experience up to the dangers of their profession. Others, however, were not able to put up enough of a fight and were never seen again. By him, or by anyone else come to that.
29
Crane and Anderson were poised on the steps of a block of flats in Docklands. All sculpted concrete and metal, it looked like a flashy block for yuppie city types keen to show off their wealth. A video entry system was on the wall. They were going to Flat No 6, but there was no name against the button. Discretion assured, the absence of a nameplate seemed to say. Crane looked around the block as Anderson tried to find the right key for the communal entrance door. It was quiet to the point of bleakness. There were very few cars parked outside, testament to the underground car park for residents and the only sound was of faraway traffic, which filtered through the grounds towards them. This was clearly a private place for those not wishing to be observed or disturbed.
Anderson had by now found the correct key and they went through the entrance doors, followed by two detectives from the Metropolitan police. Anderson had refused to enter the apartment block until they had arrived. He insisted that procedure must be followed in order to protect the crime scene, if that was what they were about to be faced with. And he was very much afraid they were.
No one spoke as they walked up the stairs to the 2nd floor. There were two flats on the ground floor, three on the first and three on the second. Janey Cunningham’s apartment was quiet. No sounds came through the front door and no one responded to Anderson’s knock. Looking over at one of the Met detectives, who nodded his agreement, Anderson used the key to open the door.
As Crane walked into the apartment, the overwhelming first impression was the smell. The apartment seemed musty, abandoned and disused, but the underlying odour was of decay. The second impression was one of light. Crane was slightly taken aback by it as they walked from the dim communal hallway into a large open plan space. There was a bank of windows along one wall, leading out to a small balcony. The kitchen area was on their right and the lounge on their left. There was no sign of anyone. Nothing seemed to have disturbed the austerity of the place. Two shiny chrome and black leather settees stood arranged around a large television set which was mounted on one wall. In the middle of the space was a glass and chrome dining table with black chairs. By contrast the kitchen was white, with white marble work surfaces and white cupboards. There seemed to be nothing personal in the room at all and nothing out of place. They knew it was a one bedroomed flat, so Crane and Anderson went in search of the bathroom and bedroom, whilst the two men from the Metropolitan police looked through the lounge and kitchen.
Crane found the bathroom. The austere theme carried on throughout the apartment. In the bathroom black wall tiles offset chrome and white fittings. There was a large shower stall and separate bath. Crane looked into the bath, but it was gleamingly clean and completely dry. He moved to the shower stall. It was built into a corner and the two glass walls were frosted. Crane wondered what secrets could be hidden behind them and moved to open the glass door. His hand was reaching for the handle when Anderson called to him.
“Crane! In here.”
Crane ran the few paces to the bedroom door and peered over his friend’s shoulder. Anderson had found Janey Carlton in her bedroom.
Crane wished they could have found her sleeping, ill in bed, or enjoying a lie in. Anything but the sight, and smell, that greeted them. The black satin sheets on the large bed were in disarray, with stains on them that could have been body fluids or blood. It was difficult to discern which on the dark sheets. Cushions were scattered around the floor, discarded in either passion or anger. Women’s clothing was draped across a chair set in front of a large dressing table. A mirror was placed on the wall above it. Reflected in the glass Crane could see Anderson, who was standing at the foot of the bed. He could also see two naked feet on the floor down by the side of the bed.
It was some while before they were able to t
ake a better look at the body. They’d immediately left the bedroom and a call had been made urgently requesting a police forensic team. Once the specialists had arrived and everyone was suited and booted, Crane and Anderson were allowed back into the bedroom for a visual inspection only. They were not allowed to touch or move the body under any circumstances.
Janey Cunningham was lying on her back on the floor, lodged between the bed and the wall. Her skin was pale, punctured by bruises, with black and yellow marks that were visible on her wrists and ankles, although they were no longer bound. Blood matted her hair on one side of her head and from Crane’s vantage point he could see bits of what appeared to be bone in and around the exposed wound. Her eyes were open and already clouded by death. One hand was covered in blood. Written in blood on the magnolia painted wall next to her, was a single word. Zane.
30
Janey Cunningham’s dead body had raised more questions than answers, which Crane and Anderson debated as they left the apartment and stood in the weak sunshine outside the block of flats. The press hadn’t got wind of their grizzly find yet, so they were undisturbed, apart from the police constables guarding the entrance and the forensic personnel walking backwards and forwards, taking in supplies and taking out evidence.
“She clearly died from blunt force trauma,” said Anderson. “They might find the murder weapon in the flat.”
“Not that there’s much there in the way of ornaments, or furniture come to that.”
“Well, it was clearly a workplace, not a home.”
Crane agreed with a small smile. “She seemed bruised all over, not just where her feet and wrists were bound.”
“Yes,” agreed Anderson. “Very rough sex?”
“If so, she didn’t pick her client very well, did she? It looks like she managed to snag a psychopath instead of a rich business man.”
“So, was she meeting a client? Was it a liaison that went wrong? Or was it a deliberate murder, her death being the objective, not sex?”
“That’s the question isn’t it?” Crane scratched the scar under his beard.
“And the word Zane?” asked Anderson.
After a moment Crane said, “Well, there could be a couple of scenarios. Zane killed her and she managed to write his name before she died. Or Zane killed her and he wrote his name as a signature, claiming the kill.” That last thought made Crane go cold.
“Or maybe it wasn’t Zane who killed her and she was calling for Zane to help her?” Anderson suggested.
“If she wanted help, why not write her husband’s name? But then again, they weren’t getting on too well according to the Major.” Crane said and lit a cigarette, before he continued speaking. “What’s with the bruises looking as though she were bound hand and foot? But when we found her there were no restraints.”
“Left for dead?”
“Eh?” asked Crane.
“She could have been tied up whilst the maniac tortured and then killed her. He took the restraints with him and left her for dead. She then regained consciousness, rolled off the bed and wrote the name on the wall before she died.”
“Poor cow,” said Crane. “No one deserves to die like that, whatever their profession. Being a prostitute, albeit a very expensive and exclusive one doesn’t mean that she could be discarded like a piece of rubbish. She was a human being with hopes and dreams and desires, just like everyone else.”
Their conversation was interrupted by one of the Met detectives, Detective Constable Saunders. “Sir,” he addressed Anderson, “We’ve found what seems to be an address book. It looks like it’s her client list. It was hidden in the bathroom, behind the panel covering the side of the bath.
“Good find,” said Anderson.
“Thank you, sir. The chief investigating officer said to tell you that we’ll have a copy for you later today, you can pick it up from New Scotland Yard if you like.”
“Much appreciated,” said Anderson and he turned to Crane. “While we’re waiting, let’s go and see Major Cunningham. He said he’d be at the London house.” Turning back to the policeman, he said. “We’ll break the news to the Major of his wife’s death. As we’ve been investigating her disappearance and he knows us.”
“Very well,” the detective said. “See you later at the Yard, sir,” and he hurried back into the building.
“Shall we?” Crane said, holding up his car keys and Anderson nodded his agreement.
Neither man was very enthusiastic about the task they were about to perform, having to tell a husband that his wife’s body had been found. But the Major and his father deserved to hear the news as soon as possible and from policemen that they knew.
As Crane drove, he mulled over the many times he’d had to report the death of a loved one. A young army wife dying because the military spirited a killer away, which allowed him to kill again many years later; young girls raped and killed by a soldier (definitely one of Crane’s lowest points); telling a girl her best friend had been killed by a punter. And now he had to tell an army Major that his wife was not only a high class hooker, but was dead. The job never got any easier.
They were shown into the drawing room of the house in Notting Hill by the same staid butler. Major Cunningham rose at their entry. He took a step towards them, mouth open as though to ask them what the hell they wanted this time. But he closed it when he saw the expression on Crane and Anderson’s faces.
“You’ve found her,” he whispered. “She’s dead?” At Crane’s nod he groped behind him for the settee and sat down heavily.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” intoned Anderson.
“Where is she?” Lord Garford asked. He was still standing, but every muscle in his body seemed tensed, as though he were readying himself for worse news to come.
“At a flat in Docklands,” said Crane.
“A flat? Docklands? What the hell?” Major Cunningham stood up once again.
“Please sit down, sir,” said Anderson. “We’ll talk you through what happened. Tell you what we know at the moment.”
Crane and Anderson had already agreed in the car exactly how much information they would give Janey’s husband. They were going to stick to the known facts and leave out their speculations and some details of the manner of her death.
Anderson said, “We found out from Janey’s agent, Laura Battle, that Janey rented a property in Docklands.”
“Why would she need a flat we didn’t know about?” asked Lord Garford.
“We understand that she entertained there.”
“Oh, God,” groaned the Major.
Crane and Anderson looked at each other as Major Cunningham began to weep. Anderson turned to Lord Garford, “Perhaps some tea, sir?”
“Something stronger I think,” he said and he walked across to a small table where a cut glass decanter and an array of small tumblers stood. He poured a large measure of something into one of the glasses and took it over to Major Cunningham.
He put his hand on his son’s shoulder then said, “Here, Clive, drink this.” As the Major looked up he continued, “Come on, lad, take it. Its brandy. For the shock.”
Major Cunningham nodded and with a shaking hand managed to get the glass up to meet his lips. They all waited as he drank.
When the Major had drunk enough brandy and managed to sit back on the settee, still holding the class in two hands, Lord Garford asked, “How did she die?”
“At the moment we suspect it was blunt force trauma to the head, sir. They haven’t found the murder weapon yet.”
At the word ‘murder’ Clive Cunningham started to cry again. Then moan. His face distorted into a grimace as he realised he had to face life without his wife. He began to call her name over and over. There was little any of them could do to comfort him and they all stood around not knowing quite what to do next in the face of such raw emotion from the Major. Crane was feeling rather awkward and imagined the other two men were as well, so he tilted his head in the direction of the door and said, “
Shall we?”
The three men congregated in the hall. “Sorry, sir,” said Crane. “I’m not deliberately being insensitive to the Major’s grief, but if we could give you the information we have, then we can leave to carry on with our investigation. A family liaison officer is on his way,” Crane looked at Anderson who nodded his agreement.
“Thank you,” said Lord Garford. “I’m not sure one is necessary, though. I can look after Clive.”
“Of course,” said Anderson, “it’s merely procedure, sir. He or she can act as a liaison between the police and the family. Keep you up to date with the investigation, relay any questions you may have and such like.”
“Very well,” his Lordship agreed. “So what else do you know at the moment?”
“We’ve found a little black book,” said Anderson. Lord Garford raised his eyebrows. “I mean literally a little black book. We think it contains details of her, shall we say, clients and so we’ll be following that up.”
“Dear God, she really was a hooker then.” Lord Garford rubbed his hands over his face and then through his hair.
When he looked back at them, Crane said to him, “It would appear so, sir. We’re going to concentrate on her client list. It could be that one of them…”
“I understand,” Lord Garford said. “We didn’t really know her at all, did we? Clive thought her absences meant that she was away modelling, but it seems not.”
“No. According to Laura Battle, it appears the modelling had all but dried up, so she turned to another profession to make money.”
“But why would she need money? She and Clive were pretty well off from what I know of their finances.”
“I think it was more a matter of pride,” said Anderson. “She didn’t want Clive to know she could no longer command large five figure sums for a few photos. That and maybe greed.”
Solid Proof: A dark, disturbing, detective mystery (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Book 8) Page 9
