by Linda Regan
“Let’s get it in proportion,” Banham reasoned. “They’re inexperienced PCSOs and they screwed up.”
“It’s outrageous,” Alison ranted on. “She could have cocked up the entire CO19 operation with her stupidity. And to top it all Crowther’s having it off with her.”
Banham stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. “It’s not against the rules.”
“It’s a bad call for an ambitious new sergeant.”
“Maybe it isn’t.” Banham set off again. “Maybe we can use it to our advantage. And the fact that she works at the club.” He opened the door to the car park and stood back to let Alison walk through.
“You are joking. She’s not even very bright. She told Crowther she’s using the PCSO training to help her get into a television police series.”
He clicked his key to unlock his car, and opened the passenger door for her. “Why tell that to Crowther?”
“Because he’s sleeping with her.”
Banham leaned across to help Alison with her seat belt.
“I can manage,” she snapped. “I know you can.” He pushed her hand away and clicked the belt into place. “It’s an excuse to touch you.” He brushed her cheek with his hand, and she heard herself sigh. “And you know what? I wish we weren’t on our way to interview Eddie Chang.” His eyes looked straight into hers. “You need to wind down. A massage would help.”
She turned away, unable to deal with this. She had wanted him for seven years, and now it had happened it was overwhelming. At this moment all she wanted was to catch that killer.
She felt his eyes on her, but she didn’t turn around. He started the engine and drove towards the car park exit.
“You got up so early, I thought you were having regrets,” she said quietly.
His head spun around, and he braked hard.
“Watch the road,” she smiled.
“I’d already said I was taking the kids to the zoo. And I wanted to see Bobby before he got up – I had to leave early.”
“I know. It’s just... Last night was a bit... unexpected, that’s all.” For the first time in the seven years they had worked together she felt uneasy. Last night had changed everything. “It all happened so suddenly,” she said quietly. “How are Lottie and the kids, anyway?”
“Bobby is still having nightmares. He cries a lot and won’t talk to me or his mum.”
“That’s so unlike him. He was always the outgoing one, off playing football with his mates. Lottie could never keep him in.”
“Now he won’t go outside the door unless he has to.”
“Not good,” Alison said. “He needs a father influence. You should try to spend more time with him.”
“Like this job lets me.” He brushed her cheek with his open palm. “I want to spend quality time with you too.” She froze, and he pulled his hand back. “Are you having regrets?”
She shook her head, took a deep breath and turned to look out of the window. The truth was she really didn’t know.
Was she regretting sleeping with him? Or was it just that everything had changed in a few short hours: her promotion to DI, her relationship with Banham, and now heading her first murder case.
As they approached the club she did a double-take. “That’s Andrew Fisher.” Banham looked in the direction she was pointing. “Where?”
“Over there. Walking along the road.”
“He’s going toward the bus stop.”
“Why didn’t he get the bus from near the station?”
“He’s got a bag of shopping. He’s allowed to walk to the supermarket.”
“Interesting that he chose the one near Doubles.”
Chapter Five
After Isabelle Walsh had leaned on the bell long enough to satisfy them both that no one was in, she used the keys from the victim’s handbag to open the front door. Crowther stepped inside into a long hallway festooned with photographs of Marilyn Monroe.
“Police!” Isabelle shouted. No one answered.
“No arguing that she lived here,” Isabelle said, as Crowther studied the pictures.
“Are these Marilyn Monroe or Sadie Morgan?” he asked.
“Marilyn, I think. Hard to tell.”
There was a picture of the star in a white, silky low-cut dress, hands pressing down the pleated skirt against the gusts of wind that threatened to reveal her shapely thighs. She tapped the photo. “This is definitely Marilyn standing over the wind machine. The Seven Year Itch, remember?”
Crowther moved to a picture of Marilyn in a long, tight, backless red dress with a split up the back and a red marabou boa draped over one shoulder. Her head was turned back over her shoulder, smiling into the camera; one of her legs peeped through the split in the dress, displaying a black seamed stocking. “They’re not all the same woman,” he said.
“Dunno,” Isabelle answered. “I’ve only seen Sadie dead.” She pointed to another picture. “This one isn’t Marilyn Monroe. It must be Sadie.”
There was a signature under the photo. “Lily Palmer,” Crowther read. “Millie Payne mentioned her. She’s another Marilyn Monroe impersonator who works at Doubles. That one’s Sadie Morgan.” Her name was printed in tiny letters below another picture of a Marilyn in a long red dress.
Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. “How do you tell? They could all be the real thing.”
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Crowther said.
A wedding photo hung at the end of the Marilyn gallery. “This is definitely Sadie,” Crowther said. “We need to talk to the husband. They only recently split; his address will be here somewhere.”
Isabelle walked into the first room off the corridor. It was the kitchen, and a walkabout phone lay on the table. She scrolled down, checking the texts and making a list of the numbers in her notebook. “Nothing under Bruno here,” she muttered.
“Try husband.”
Crowther walked away. “No garages in the grounds of this block of flats,” he called from the other room. “That’s one unexplained key on her ring.”
“She might rent one somewhere else.”
“Millie Payne doesn’t think she drives.”
Isabelle had taken a dislike to PCSO Payne. She was a new recruit with a lot to learn, but she had ideas above her station. She was also far too friendly with Crowther.
Right now Isabelle was kicking herself for sleeping with Crowther. She’d only done it to distract him, when they were both up for the sergeant’s post, and it hadn’t worked. But now, much as she tried to persuade herself otherwise, she was still attracted to him – but he had made it very clear the feeling wasn’t mutual.
She noticed the answerphone flashing and pressed the Play button. There was a call from the dead girl’s mother, asking her for a lift to the supermarket. She dialled 1471, made a note of the number and phoned it through to Eric, who was on family liaison duty.
A thought struck her. “Col,” she shouted. “Her mother’s left a message about taking her to get the week’s shopping. She must drive.”
Crowther was on his way back down the hall, carrying something wrapped in newspaper.
“Look what I found, in the cupboard at the end of the hall!” He held up the bundle. It contained a stained knife, and a diary full of handwritten entries.
Isabelle stared at the knife. “That’s blood, Col!”
It was a pleasant morning, and the cast of The Legend had finished their rehearsals. Lily Palmer gave her order of a latte with extra milk to one of the other actors, taking it for granted he’d go in and order it for her. It looked as if she thought she really was Marilyn Monroe.
Lily leaned back to take in the early spring sunshine, and pulled her red lipsticked mouth into a false Monroe smile.
She didn’t know someone was watching her.
The figure hovered by the shop next to the café, pretending to read the notice-board displayed in the window but observing her every move.
Mouth. The nickname had seemed appropriate for this
job. Mouth wore a dirty old raincoat, the kind of thing seedy perverts and stalkers were meant to wear, and also sunglasses and a very strange wig that looked as if it had been scraped from the corpse of a large dead rat. Smelt like it too, but it did the trick.
Lily had noticed. She looked across a little nervously. So she should be: Mouth had been around since she left rehearsals and wasn’t being very subtle. Her fear was a perk of the job. The real Marilyn had to put up with all those perverts and stalkers; now it was Lily Palmer’s turn. She couldn’t have all the fun without the other side of it. And if Lily Palmer knew there was a theory that Marilyn Monroe was murdered, that would heighten her fear.
It was turning out to be a fun morning.
Mouth watched closely. Only half of Lily’s attention was on the conversation with the other actors; every now and again her eyes flicked sideways. She was wondering whether to confide that she thought she was being watched, but Mouth knew she wouldn’t. She was too unsure of herself. And what would she say? Have you seen that strange person staring at me? How pathetic would that sound? You couldn’t get someone arrested just because you suspected they were following you; the police wanted proof of harassment. Mouth was too clever for that. Why would anyone follow her anyway? Only famous people had weird stalkers and she was a no one: just a two-bit actress who wanted to be Marilyn Monroe.
She nervously lifted her latte to her lips, missed, and gave herself a moustache of froth. Mouth had to quell the urge to laugh. Not exactly sexy, was it?
Then she did a Marilyn: “M’mm that’s good,” followed by a lowering of her eyelids and a pout just like Monroe. She licked the froth from around her mouth and giggled that familiar Monroe giggle.
“You are so like her,” said the actor who had brought the coffee. “And your accent is spot on New York.” His was genuine.
“Marilyn wasn’t from New York though,” disputed the other actor. “She came from Los Angeles.”
“She went from foster home to foster home all over America,” the first man responded.
Lily joined in. “I’ve read a lot about her. I used to work in a club, impersonating her. Her mother worked for one of the studios in Los Angeles, but the woman was mentally unwell. She tried to suffocate Marilyn with a pillow when she was only a year old. Marilyn, Norma Jean was her name in those days, was taken into care because the mother couldn’t cope, and she was sent from home to home. She had a very tough life.”
She began to hum Candle in the Wind, and flicked her eyes in Mouth’s direction. Mouth watched, transfixed.
Lily turned her attention back to her coffee, scooped a spoonful of froth from the top and put it in her mouth. “Have either of you noticed that strange person outside the newsagents?” she asked her companions.
But before they turned to look, Mouth had darted away round the corner.
Alison glanced at her watch. “Someone’s always here, according to Crowther,” she told Banham.
They had rung the bell in the wall outside Doubles three times.
“They’re sure to have CCTV,” Banham said. “I expect they’re watching us.”
“They’ve got three minutes,” Alison snapped, “then I’m having the door broken in.”
“Stay calm,” Banham said. “We’re keeping this low key, remember? Every time the place is raided, they never find anything.” He examined the door handle and the spy-glass. “There has to be a hidden surveillance system. I’ll bet good money that Chang’s watching us right now.”
Alison leaned on the bell again.
“Can you get to the courtyard at the back without going through the club?” he asked her. Around the corner a high wall concealed a cottage at the rear of the club.
Alison shook her head. “Only by going over that wall.”
“Go round and pretend you’re going to climb the wall. If there’s CCTV on us, they’ll be out in a shot.”
“They’ll know it isn’t a routine enquiry if I do that!” She stepped away from the door.
Banham took a deep breath. “OK, it’s your call. How do you want to play this – DI Grainger?”
She hid a smile and thought for a second. “Let’s run with what we’ve got. The gun Sadie was carrying was a .22 Astra Cadix, and we need to find out where it came from. He’s aware that we know he deals in firearms; that makes it a bit more than a routine enquiry on an employee.”
“He also knows we can’t prove anything,” Banham told her. “That puts the ball in his court.”
“OK. I’ll climb the wall and go into the courtyard.”
“Without a search warrant?”
“Like you said, if they come out, then we know there is hidden surveillance. If nothing else, we can let CO19 know – it’ll be useful when the raid goes off next Wednesday.”
Alison had only started to hoist herself up on the wall when the front door opened.
A black guy around thirty years of age stood on the threshold. He was dressed untidily in denim, and had a six o’clock shadow and long dreadlocks. Alison recognised him right away as Johnny Gladman; his drugs record went back some years.
“I’m glad to see you’ve found yourself a job, Mr Gladman,” she said sarcastically. “I hear the perks are pretty good.”
Johnny Gladman took a step backward as Banham flashed his ID and walked into the doorway.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I ask the questions!” Banham snapped.
“We need to talk to Eddie Chang,” Alison said.
“I’m not sure he’s in.”
“Don’t play games with us.” Banham stared into Johnny’s eyes, and the doorman’s gaze dropped. Chang was in all right.
Alison pushed past Johnny and into the club. She headed for the door in the corner, Eddie Chang’s office, and entered without bothering to knock.
The club owner was sitting behind his desk, pretending to sort through some papers. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. He was impeccably dressed, a lean man with narrow, dark, oriental eyes and a curving scar to the right of his mouth. The fringes of his hair were grey, but the centre and top were still black. Alison couldn’t tell if it was natural.
“What’s the problem?” His accent betrayed his Peckham origins.
“Do you know Sadie Morgan?” Alison asked, holding his cold, cruel stare. He placed two fingers against his cheek, and she clocked the large solitaire diamond ring and the Cartier watch. A gold chain hung from his neck, bearing a dragon pendant. The scar beside his mouth, a souvenir from a knife fight many years back, was fainter than Alison remembered. Over the years its curving shape had earned him the nickname of Snake. These days if he dealt with knives, it was to hire other people to bring him souvenirs of his enemy’s faces or sexual organs.
The club was a cover. His real business was trading in drugs, firearms and under-age women, all of which he smuggled at regular intervals through customs at Dover. The women were sold into prostitution until they were worn out or died of drug overdoses.
The club advertised a different lookalike act each night. A poster by his desk advertised Over The Rainbow Night on a Wednesday; an asterisk at the bottom denoted Lisa Minelli impersonators that night as well as Dorothy lookalikes. There was an Elvis night, and another devoted to Frank Sinatra.
The whole of the club was covered in pictures of Marilyn Monroe. It was common knowledge that Chang hated women, and regarded them as a saleable commodity, like firearms and drugs. Yet Marilyn Monroe was his idol.
“Sadie Morgan?” Alison repeated. “Did you know her?
“Yes, I know her. Constable.” One side of Chang’s mouth curled into a smile as he leaned on the first syllable of constable. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s Detective Inspector.” Alison raised her ID card. “Sadie Morgan’s body was found in the pond on the open ground next to the Rose Estate early this morning. When did you last see her?”
Surprise flashed momentarily across Eddie Chang’s eyes, then they dropped back down to the papers on
his desk. “She worked here last night,” he said. “But she wasn’t on form. I sensed she’d taken something. Was it an overdose?” He paused. “Detective Inspector.”
“Got it here, did she?” Banham had walked in. “Care to give us the names of the dealers?”
Eddie Chang’s snake-like black eyes narrowed, and he lifted his diamond-clad hand defensively. “You should know me better, Mister Banham. This place is clean. You’ve raided it enough times and found nothing.” He smiled, but only with his mouth. “There are no drugs here.”
“Don’t be too confident, Mr Chang,” Banham said flatly.
The mouth pulled into a tight smile again. “I can only be what I am. Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, but you can tell us where you were between midnight and six a m,” Alison said.
“Here. It was a busy night. We had a packed club. A new Monroe in training. We worked late.”
“Were you here all night?”
“All night.”
“Someone verify that for you?” Alison pursued.
“Ask Johnny.” Gladman was hovering a little way behind Banham. “He’s my caretaker. He works and lives here, in the cottage in the courtyard.”
“I seem to recall we found women’s underwear in that cottage on one occasion,” Alison said. “Do you wear ladies’ underwear, Mr Gladman?”
Johnny threw a horrified glance at Eddie Chang.
“This is getting tedious, Detective Inspector,” Chang said. “I told you at the time, sometimes the Marilyn girls stay over.”
“Actually, you told us at the time that you knew nothing about it.”
Chang’s face remained expressionless, but Alison persisted. “Still trafficking under-age women from eastern Europe?”
“This is harassment.” Chang threw his pencil down “Prove it, can you? My memory says your last raid turned up nothing.”
“That was then,” Banham said fixing his eyes on Chang. A couple of seconds passed. “I’m on your case, Mr Chang. If something is going on, I am going to find out.”
Eddie Chang sighed. “I run an honest lookalike club. If there is any drug-pushing going on, I too need to know.”
