by Emmy Ellis
Without using Lisa’s name and revealing she was her sibling, Tracy explained that metaphor to Barrows.
“So, steal her flute or whatever the hell the Pied Piper used,” Barrows said.
“It’s not as easy as that. If I could tell you, you’d understand, but I can’t.”
Barrows nodded, and Tracy finished her drink. She stood and took the cup over to Barrows’ desk and placed it on the blotter.
“Bill me for the extra time, won’t you?” Tracy asked, walking towards the sofa. She held out a hand and shook Barrows’. “And thank you for this evening. You’ve helped a great deal. Sorry about the tears and the overly long hug.”
Barrows rose, not bothering to straighten her ruched skirt or smooth her top. “One, I’m absolutely not billing you for the extra. That was girlie time, something I don’t get much of, and I appreciate being able to kick back. Two, don’t be sorry for crying. You needed to. Bottle things up too long, and the cork bursts out, the contents inside spilling. And as for the hug, I kind of needed one myself, so I was selfish and grabbed it while I could.” She winked.
“You’re a shit liar.”
“I know. Worth a try, though.”
Tracy laughed, and it felt so bloody good. “I really have to go. Middle of a case and all that. It won’t be long before it hits the news, and you’ll hear all about it.”
“Good luck with it.” Barrows moved to the door and grasped the handle. “Same time next week? Maybe, if you can stay on again, we’ll have a tipple instead of coffee.”
“Maybe. If this case isn’t wrapped up, I might not be able to make it, but I’ll give the receptionist a bell if that happens.”
“A day’s notice at least, if you can. Otherwise you get billed anyway. It’s better if I can offer the slot to someone else who needs it.” Barrows opened the door. “See you soon. And remember—”
“I know, I know: it’s not my fault. Catch you next week. And thanks again.”
Tracy left and stood in front of the lift, pressing the button and waiting for it to arrive. Once it did, she stepped on, reluctantly switching her mind from the lovely time she’d just had to Lisa. The lift landed, and she strode out into the reception area. Kerry had gone, and in her place behind the desk sat a male security guard. He got up and walked towards the main door, sliding the long chain dangling from his belt through his fingers then holding the bunch of keys at the end.
He tilted his head at her, a questioning gesture, so she flashed her warrant card. His eyes bulged, and he unlocked the door, swinging it open to allow her to leave. She breezed through, and in her car she sat for a few seconds to release a sigh, imagining it carried her worries along with it. Or some of them anyway. She’d known for a long time what needed to be done, had even thought about it a couple of times recently, but to actually contemplate doing it…
Killing Lisa would take planning, and while Tracy knew all the tricks to stop evidence from her body dropping at a scene, she couldn’t do anything about the minute particles transferring onto her, then in her car, and in her home, tainting Damon’s safe place without him even knowing it.
Could she do that?
She’d been lucky with John. She had happened to be at the scene for her job, so killing him had been something she’d got away with and blamed on Lisa. Everyone had swallowed the story, and if Lisa wasn’t still skulking around, that barrel of bullshit would be well and truly over by now, forgotten.
But Lisa hadn’t stayed away as she’d promised, and things had turned to crap. So Tracy would just have to use a giant pooper scooper and clean it up, wouldn’t she.
She gunned the engine and set off, her mind on how she’d lure Lisa to meet her, the location, and method of murder. She didn’t feel bad about those thoughts either. Maybe the apple didn’t fall so far from the tree after all. Her father had killed, as had his two daughters.
What an absolute nightmare this had all ended up being.
She arrived at the station in good time, having missed the rush-hour traffic, and waved at the night-desk sergeant on her way towards the stairs. She legged it up the three flights and bounded into the incident room, out of breath, full of energy and new purpose.
Damon turned in his chair, the castors squeaking. “Did it really go okay?” His expression was full of worry, despite her telling him in a text it had gone fine.
She kissed his forehead. “Of course it did. Do you think I’d have stayed on for longer if it hadn’t? She’s bloody brilliant, and I’ll be right as rain in no time. You won’t recognise the person I really am underneath when she comes crawling out of the hole she’s been hiding in.” She smiled.
“Bloody hell, you already seem different. What, did she give you some sort of medication in a drink or something?” He stood and brought her close, his hands on her backside.
“Oi, no touching the boss at work.”
“It’s outside hours.”
“We’re on overtime.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Uh, I’m on overtime, you mean.”
She slapped his chest and laughed. “Seriously now, it was great, and if she’ll take you on, if it isn’t a conflict or interest or whatever, you’ll do well with her. If not, she’ll know someone else you can see.” She huffed out a breath, loath to change the subject, but she had to. “Did you find anything out while I was gone?”
“I did. Didn’t you get my text?”
She frowned. Got her phone out of her pocket. A message envelope sat at the top of the screen. “Shit, must have been miles away on the ride here.” That’s an understatement. She shoved her phone away.
“It was lucky you turned up when you did, because I was about to ring Winter and tell him where I was going, picking Alastair up on the way as backup.”
“Seriously? You have a name and address?” The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and her stomach flipped over. “From the taxi search?”
“Yes. I got nothing whatsoever from ex-taxi sales so had another look at the CCTV we were going to check again tomorrow. The last taxi we couldn’t identify, because the licence plate was partially obscured, just happened to have an obvious Mondeo look to it, so I plugged in that make, all the dark colours, and the G-nine-three visible on the plate. That narrowed it down to only fourteen vehicles, surprisingly, with variations of the G-nine-three. I thought it was too good to be true, to be honest, but one of the vehicles is registered in this town with the complete G-nine-three in sequence. The other thirteen are elsewhere in the country.”
“Christ. We could have done this much earlier and saved a heap of time.” Don’t beat yourself up. “Can we really have got that lucky so soon, though?” Dare she hope it would be over in a matter of hours? “Where is it registered?”
“Same street as one of the nurses from Blooming Age.”
“Fucking hell… Is this turning into the Robin’s Way saga all over again? And what’s their name?”
“A Mr Simon Cowell.”
“What?” She barked out laughter. “That’s got to be some kind of sodding joke, right?”
“I know. If he’s not our man, we can at least have him for impersonating someone else if he isn’t really who he says he is, so it won’t be a complete waste of time. Come on.”
They left the incident room, and at the desk downstairs, Damon told the sergeant where they’d be.
“We’ll phone in if we need backup,” Tracy said. She didn’t want any until she knew what and who they were dealing with. This Simon fella might well just be an innocent person who’d bought the taxi and could provide an alibi for the night in question.
In the car, they didn’t talk, and Tracy tried to remember which nurse lived in that street. She didn’t ask Damon for clarification through embarrassment. She couldn’t admit she’d forgotten, her head being so stuffed with too many things, more than the average person probably had in theirs, like bundles of lies and suitcases full of bullshit.
They arrived, and although the street was familiar, she sti
ll couldn’t recall the nurse. They’d visited so many, and she consoled herself with that fact.
“Just here,” Damon said, pointing out of the window.
They got out, and Tracy waited on the path so Damon could peer through the ground floor front window, which was in darkness, although a faint line of light low down in the unlit hallway beyond the clear glass in the front door announced itself as a gap beneath another door. She pointed, and Damon nodded.
“Someone might be in,” she said and knocked on the glass.
The door inside opened, revealing a man with a backdrop of creamy light, a kitchen sink unit behind him. His blue, checked pyjama bottoms and a white vest had Tracy longing to get into her own nightwear and slip into bed. He walked towards them, frowning, appearing half asleep, as though he was ready for an early night.
He opened the front door and gave a tentative smile.
“Simon Cowell?” Tracy asked.
He looked upwards, as though he waited for some quip or other to follow, then stared directly at her. “No, Simon Cowdell.”
“I see.” Tracy smiled back. “Only, your licence details say Cowell.”
“They bloody don’t,” he said. “And who are you anyway, coming here asking shit like that?”
Fuck.
“Sorry. I’m DI Tracy Collier, and this is DS Damon Hanks. Can we have a look at your licence, please?”
“Why? I haven’t had notification of any speeding tickets or anything.”
“Please?” Tracy cocked her head, and Damon stepped closer to her, presenting a united front.
“Hang on.” Cowdell stomped off into the room at the front, and a light came on.
Tracy eased back to look inside through the window—a living room, half a black sofa visible, and a Gustav Klimt print of some naked blonde woman with flowers dotted around her.
Cowdell returned and held out his licence. “Well, fuck me, I never noticed it said Cowell before. I’ll have to get that changed. Got to be someone at DVLA having a bloody laugh.”
Tracy leant towards him and gave it the once-over. “Do you own a taxi? Mondeo?”
“Nope. Grey Ford Focus. Want the registration certificate?”
“If you don’t mind.” Tracy smiled again. Why isn’t he asking us inside? Is he who we’re after? She steeled herself for him coming back with a weapon, cursing for not insisting they put stab vests on before they’d left the station.
“Don’t,” Damon whispered. “I just thought the same thing.”
“What?” she said, testing their connection.
“Vests.”
Goosebumps sprang up on her arms that he’d guessed her thoughts. “Creepy bastard.” She laughed unsteadily.
Cowdell reappeared. “Here you go. And it’s that vehicle there, look.” He nodded behind them.
Tracy didn’t turn to see it. If she and Damon both did that, Cowdell could strike while their backs were turned. She stared at Cowdell, who frowned as though thinking.
“But if it’s a taxi you’re after, I’m sure I saw one going into the garage of a house a few doors down earlier,” he said.
“Which one?” Tracy asked, her heartrate kicking into overdrive.
A scream pierced her ears, and she shot her attention in the direction it had come from. A naked woman stood on a doorstep two houses away to the left, then streaked through the garden and out onto the pavement, heading their way.
Damon dashed to intercept her, and Tracy followed, widening her eyes at the state of her. She had dried shit on her legs, her hair was filthy, as was her face, and blood spatter coated her breasts and stomach, drips of it striping her arms.
“That one!” Cowdell shouted. “That house she just came out of.”
Tracy ignored him, holding her hands out to the woman. “It’s all right, we’re police officers. You’re safe now.” Or you’ll be arrested, depending on what you’ve done to get that blood on you.
Damon slowly brought out his ID and showed it to the shaking state in front of them. “I’m going to give you my jacket, all right?” he said, removing it then taking a step towards her.
She raised her hands and shook her head. “Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me.” Painfully thin, she appeared half starved and on the verge of collapsing.
Damon placed his coat around her shoulders. “What happened in there, love?” He rested a hand on her back.
She shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. Shock setting in, most likely. “He took me. He…kept me. And a woman… I… Oh God, I couldn’t help it. I had to do it.”
Tracy called for backup, and as the woman leant into Damon, Tracy turned to Cowdell.
“Look after her, will you? You’re a good bloke, right?” she said, jerking her head at the blood-drenched twig in Damon’s arms.
Simon nodded. “I’ll get her some blankets in a minute.”
Tracy said to the woman, “Did what? What did you have to do?”
“I stabbed him.”
Tracy swallowed. “Go with Simon, okay? We have to get in there, in that house you came from. Simon won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Damon led her to Cowdell, and once they were inside, Cowdell assuring her she’d be fine and he’d make her a cup of tea and a sandwich, Tracy and Damon went to the car to take their belts and vests out of the boot, strapping them on then picking up a Taser each.
“What the fuck are we going to find in there?” she asked, glancing at the house and securing her Taser in the belt beside her baton.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I hope to fuck Chrissy Ordsall is all right.”
Chrissy Ordsall. The surly nurse who’d been in charge the night Irene Roberts had gone missing. What the fuck was a killer doing in her house?
Chapter Twenty-Four
He stares at the ceiling and wonders if he’ll die here, bleeding out, or whether that bitch alerted someone upstairs and they’ll come for him, save him, and he’ll go to hospital and then prison.
What does he want? He asks himself that over and over, and he doesn’t know anything much except he just needs this to stop. He’s always needed it to stop. If he’d managed to kill the one who’d just stabbed him, he could have added her to his collection, and no one would have been any the wiser. He could’ve gone back to his happier self, his happier life, and continued with his relatively new existence, out of these clothes.
He never wants to wear the trousers, the shirt, and the taupe tie again.
If he’s saved, he never will.
He rolls onto his side on the floor and looks at Dirty Girl. Musters enough strength to rip a hole in the bag over her head then tugs on it to open it enough to see the windows to her soul. He hauls her onto her side, too, and she stares back at him, her eyes still clear. If another two hours pass without anyone finding them, those irises of hers will be cloudy, and her spirit will definitely be gone.
He doesn’t like the colour of her eyes. They’re not quite the same shade as Mrs Roberts’.
He feels around and brushes his fingertips over one of the glass eyeballs that fell off the table when that stupid cow emptied the bag earlier. Ah, there’s a second one. He sets them between him and Dirty Girl, then reaches out, wincing at the sharp pain the movement produces. His side throbs where the scissors went into him, once, twice, three times, and a fourth for good measure, the bitch grunting every time she’d pushed them in. His shirt lifts a little, heavy with blood, and a slurping sound lets him know the material is soaked.
He won’t last long.
Digging a finger and thumb into Dirty Girl’s eye socket, he grips and yanks, gritting his teeth against the agony searing through him. He wrestles with the task for a minute or two, then lets her eyeball dangle over her cheek.
He pushes a glass one inside the gaping hole.
There, that looks better.
He’s about to do the same with the other one, but footsteps clatter in the hallway above, then there’s the heavy tread of boots on the stairs, and he knows
his time is up. His body convulses, and he drops the second glass eyeball, unable to breathe in more air. Lungs straining, his heartbeat thudding slower with each microsecond that ticks by, he closes his eyes and waits for death to come.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After checking the house with Damon, clearing each room, Tracy stood beside him in the hallway, not daring to move. Something had scuffed, or someone had sighed raggedly, the sound coming from the basement; the door was ajar, and a light was on down there. Something stank to high heaven.
She glanced at him and raised her eyebrows: What the fuck was that?
He shrugged and lifted his pointer finger as if to tell her to stay put.
So, he thought he was going down first, did he?
She narrowed her eyes at him, mouthing no, but he ignored her and shifted backwards to the wall beside the door. How could she let him lead the way when he’d been stabbed before? No, it was her turn to suffer any injuries, thank you, and she darted to the doorway, taking the first step down before he could stop her.
Nothing except the floor was visible below—the stairs were hugged by a wall either side—so she’d be going in blind until she turned left at the bottom. Heart skittering, she ventured forward, taking the steps lightly so she didn’t create too much noise. It seemed Damon was doing the same—there was barely any noise behind her, although she sensed his presence close. He rested a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze, but she didn’t twist to look up at him; he’d only try to persuade her to let him overtake her.
Not a fucking chance.
On she went, and with only two stairs to go, she took a deep breath, releasing it quietly. Grabbing her Taser, she pressed her back to the wall on her right then shuffled along it to the adjacent wall opposite the stairs. She glanced across into the room, her guts spasming. Three naked people stood ahead of her at the back, staring at her as though shocked she was there—their eyes bulged—and it took her a second to realise they weren’t real.
