Dead Like Her

by Linda Regan

  Andrew Fisher was less of a worry. He lacked experience too, but he was obviously sweet on Millie Payne, so he’d watch out for her. That was all Isabelle wanted; it left her free to move about the club and find out exactly what was going on.

  But she had to get the bloody job first. She was a small- bosomed brunette with about as much idea how to wiggle her arse as her pet tortoise Lettuce; yet she if she was turned down Andrew and Millie would have to pull out too.

  She stared at the other girls in the queue. Any one of them could be the next victim. Now there were three, it was clear that the common denominator was this club. But she needed to be very, very careful not to screw things up for CO19. Gang crime involving knives and guns was increasing, and if those Mac 10s made it out there, there would be carnage in no time. Eddie Chang had no respect for human pain or life, and he stood to make a packet; if he got a sniff of the fact that she was CID, the whole operation was blown.

  But she wanted him behind bars. Besides, she had passed her sergeant’s exams, and getting promotion meant getting noticed. This was her chance and she was going to grab it.

  The queue was moving quite quickly, and she was now inside the club. She glimpsed Millie sitting in the far corner, having her wig checked by Terry King. Terry was top of her own list of suspects, alibis or no alibis. He so wanted to be a woman. His lover Eddie Chang was obsessed with the sexy, feminine Marilyns; that must really make him jealous.

  Chang looked the prospective Marilyns up and down as they paraded past him. Some he dismissed like sides of meat. Others were asked to get up on the stage and do the Marilyn walk. Perverted bastard, Isabelle thought; he was really enjoying the legs and suspender belts and bum-wiggling. Was he gay, or was he bi? Or was the Marilyn Monroe thing just a fetish? The club was a shrine to the star; there were even photos pinned up by the door of the real Marilyn’s grave, with one solitary red rose on it. So would his Marilyn worship make him more likely to kill the girls that pretended to be her, or protect them?

  The queue moved again. Now she could see what she was in for. Terry King had finished combing Millie’s wig, and was handing each girl a numbered card. Then the girls walked past Chang, and if they weren’t dismissed, they had to get up on the stage and do the wiggle and a short impersonation. Eddie Chang was like a child in a sweetshop.

  Only a handful of girls remained before her in the queue, and she still hadn’t a clue what to do. She suddenly realised what stage-fright was. Her only hope was to flirt and be charming; she was good at that. That, she decided, was what she would do, no matter how his narrow slanted eyes and ugly twisted mouth revolted her. Terry King’s reaction would be interesting too.

  Terry handed the girl in front of her a card. The girl wiggled past Chang on to the stage and started singing I Wanna Be Loved By You.

  Isabelle noticed the mobile in Eddie Chang’s hand start to flash as the girl sang. He hardly took his eyes off the girl as he checked the screen and put the phone to his ear.

  “To what do I owe this privilege?” Isabelle heard him say. What was wrong with a simple hello? He seemed to be interested in what the caller had to say, although his eyes never left the girl. After a few seconds he burst out laughing. “My ship has come in once again,” he said, clicking his phone shut.

  The Marilyn on stage ended her audition with a thrust of her hip, a turn of her shoulder and the famous “Ooh Boopy Doo” in a breathy American whisper.

  Eddie clapped his hands. “Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “You’ve got a job.”

  Terry King gazed at her with loathing. He pushed a card in Isabelle’s direction without even a glance. The girl stepped carefully off the stage, and Isabelle closed her eyes. Showtime.

  Make or break time, more like.

  She glanced at the card. There was no number on it after all: just handwritten words.

  Your Turn Now

  There were police blockades at both ends of the road, and Forensics had already arrived. Hordes of blue-overalled officers were inside the sealed-off area that was now the scene of a double murder. Some took photographs; one held a camcorder; others crawled on all fours, looking for any tiny particle of evidence around the garden where the young man lay with his skull broken open.

  Two officers were erecting a white scene-of-crime tent which stretched across the garden, up the path to the house and as far as the blood-splattered front door. The door was open; the tiny hallway which was also splashed with blood, as was the staircase where the female victim lay.

  DCI Charlie Sandford was talking to Banham. He turned to greet Alison as she approached. “Congratulations are in order, I hear,” he said. “DI Grainger now.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “Her name was Amy Bailey,” Sandford told her. “I called you because there was this note saying Your Turn Now with her body. Col Crowther had filled me in on your current case, so I put it on HOLMES and rang your nick.”

  “Much appreciated,” Alison said.

  “I’ve already talked to a neighbour Amy spoke to this morning. Apparently she was going for an audition at that club, Doubles. Fancied herself as a Marilyn Monroe lookalike.”

  “Did you find out anything about the boyfriend?”

  “He moved in quite recently. Love’s young dream, according to Mrs Thing.”

  “Looks like the boyfriend got in the way,” Banham suggested. “It all looks very messy,” Alison said. “There could be DNA – we got some from the last murder, so we may even get a match.”

  “Don’t rule out a copycat,” Charlie Sandford warned.

  “I’m not ruling anything out. I’m going to cross all my Ts and dot all my Is. Looks like I’ve got a serial killer for my first case.”

  Charlie was looking at her appraisingly. “Did I mention you’re looking great?”

  “Thank you.” Alison hid a smile and avoided Banham’s eyes.

  “Not a lot more we can do here,” Banham said brusquely. “We’ll have to wait for the forensic report.”

  He hadn’t ventured into the house, she thought. Crowther had told them what to expect: the female victim was upside down at the bottom of the stairs, her face covered in blood and mucus and bone splinters. Her bleached blonde hair was rust-coloured with dried blood, and the stairs and walls were pretty foul as well.

  Charlie Sandford was still looking at her. “Let me know when you’re going to the gym again,” he said. “Perhaps we can work off our excess energy together and talk over the case.”

  Alison opened her mouth to reply, but Banham was there before her. “All her free evenings are taken,” he told Sandford curtly. “We are off to Venice together as soon as we catch this killer.” He flicked a glance at Alison. “You’d be better using your excess energy in finding out who killed these poor people.”

  Johnny Gladman hadn’t spoken a word since Crowther had brought him in. Crowther wasn’t a bit surprised. He had obeyed Banham’s order to go to the club to take hair samples from the staff including Chang and Terry King, and against his better judgement he had arrested Gladman for lying about his brother. Chang had flown into a rage and told Johnny not to say a word until his solicitor arrived.

  Johnny knew how to obey orders too.

  Crowther got the message loud and clear: Johnny Gladman was one of Chang’s people. The chances were high that his brother Otis was too. The team Crowther had sent to scour the Bay Estate for Otis were having no luck. Crowther was not a happy bunny.

  He decided to leave Johnny Gladman to cool off in a cell, and called his snout Ray Adams for a meet.

  Adams sounded terrified. “Gimme a break. Eddie Chang’s going spare now you lot have taken Gladman,” he said. “He knows someone is feeding information to the cops. As soon as he finds out it’s me, I’ll be singing soprano.”

  “Be there!” Crowther barked. “You know the score. I need some answers.”

  This case was getting to him. Talk about a baptism of fire. He’d been in on this CO19 operation from the start six months ag
o, and now they were so close; the raid was only two days away now, and they were up for a major result. Getting Eddie Chang off the streets would mean big brownie points for everyone involved.

  But now these murders were complicating matters no end; Crowther didn’t doubt Chang was behind them, but they left the whole operation a lot more fragile.

  That was why he had pushed Alison to let Millie go under-cover in the club and he was quite sure she was capable. All the same, it was bloody dangerous; he knew why Alison was reluctant. The forensic results told them Otis Gladman was involved; now they needed to find out how.

  More important, they needed to find him.

  The back door of Crowther’s car opened and Ray Adams crawled in. The tic above his mouth was working overtime. The pressure was obviously getting to him too.

  Good. Two of the officers in that club were Crowther’s friends. He needed to know what they were facing.

  “There’s been another murder of a Monroe girl,” Adams told him, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth.

  “So it’s got back to Chang, has it?” Interesting. “Or did he have something to do with it?”

  Ray Adams shook his head. “He didn’t even know this one. She didn’t work at the club. She went for an audition today.”

  “So how did he find out?”

  “He got a call, about an hour ago.”

  “Who from?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Crowther. I heard him telling Terry King, that’s all. He still reckons Pelegino is behind it. He says he only left him walking because you lot knew he was after him. When everything’s gone down on Wednesday, he’s having Pelegino taken out.”

  “So the pick-up of the Ukrainians is still going ahead?”

  Adams sniffed. “You’ve pulled Johnny in,” he said licking his mouth. “That’s made Mr Chang nervous. It’s on for Wednesday night at the moment, but he’ll pull the plug if you’re still holding Gladman.”

  “Said that, did he?”

  “Said it to Terry King.”

  “Did he indeed?” Crowther paused. “Terry King lives with Chang, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Bet he, or fucking she, doesn’t like those Monroe girls.”

  “He liked Sadie.” Ray looked at him. “I dunno what you’re thinking, but Terry wouldn’t upset Mr Chang. He wouldn’t dare, specially now. He’s feeling the heat from you lot. Those girls from Ukraine are supposed to get picked up by me and Gladman. If you keep Gladman locked up, it ain’t gonna happen, and Mr Chang won’t be happy.”

  “We’re not happy either,” Crowther said. “Another woman has been killed.”

  “Chang says it’s Pelegino,” Adams insisted. “He says he’s gonna find him and hang his balls on the door of the club.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “After Lily Palmer.”

  Crowther fell silent. Eddie Chang was a clever bastard and liked to play the police; but he regarded those girls as his personal property, and if he knew for sure that Pelegino had killed them, his balls would already be hanging out to dry.

  Either Chang didn’t know for certain – or he killed them himself, or at least arranged it. But why? And the gun in Sadie’s handbag – what was that about? Otis Gladman was another unknown quantity; Sadie had the bloodstained knife with his prints on it; where did come into the whole mess? Was he working for Chang?

  Trouble was, Ray Adams wasn’t the brightest coin in the collection; a lifetime of drugs had seen to that. Crowther decided to lead him.

  “Who did Lily Palmer not get on with?”

  Ray wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “The other Marilyns. She weren’t popular. Sadie and her were rivals. Johnny was going out with Sadie.” He sniffed and blinked. “And Lily knew about Sadie’s trouble with her old man.”

  “And Terry King, how was he with Lily?

  Ray turned out his bottom lip. “Didn’t like her. He liked Sadie though.” He shook his head. “I get confused sometimes which one’s which.”

  Now there was a thought to ponder. “Is there anyone else who might do that?” he asked slowly.

  “What?”

  “Muddle up the girls.”

  Ray shrugged. “Anybody might. All the bleedin’ same, aren’t they?”

  “What about Otis Gladman.”

  Ray shrugged again. “Maybe. He’s a bit loop-the-loop anyway. They say he stabbed a kid at his school.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Ray’s cheek twitched again. “Your lot! Who else?” He tugged at his earlobe. “He nicked a gun from Mr Chang’s cellar.”

  “The cellar? The club cellar, you mean? I thought the firearms were kept in the cottage.”

  “Some. He keeps some stacked in the cellar too.”

  “Are there any there now?”

  “Some, yeah.”

  “What sort?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Well, find out. I need to know. Has he still got Astra Cadix hand-guns?”

  “Yeah, I think he’s got them.”

  “In the cellar or the cottage?”

  “Dunno. I’m not allowed in the cottage.”

  “So you don’t know if Otis Gladman lives there?”

  Ray rubbed his face. “He did. But not any more. Mr Chang banned him when he stole the gun. He had to go back to the Bay Estate. But he has to live with Johnny officially, like, cos he’s only a kid.”

  “So he fends for himself?”

  “I suppose so. Mr Chang doesn’t like him hanging around, says he’s trouble.”

  “I need to know where to find him.” Crowther was losing patience. “That’s what I pay you for. Find out. Call me, later tonight.”

  Ray nodded and put his hand out for the note.

  Crowther ignored it. “And keep your fucking ears pricked. Three women are dead and I need some answers. Tonight.” He watched Adams in the mirror, scrubbing his face with the back of his hand. He needed his fix.

  “I have to go back before they miss me,” he said pathetically.

  “OK.” Crowther handed him the twenty. “Ring me later, yeah?”

  “Are you still on for Wednesday, then?”

  “Probably.”

  “Will you let me know when you’re going in, so I can make sure I’ve no gear on me?”

  “Yes,” Crowther said after a beat. “Might even be a bonus in it for you if we catch Chang red-handed.”

  Adams opened the car door quietly and let himself out. Crowther drove off, but pulled over when his mobile began to flash Penny’s number.

  “Babe?”

  “Got an interesting development on the hair in the windpipe of the victims,” she said. “It’s animal hair, not human. Some kind of feather; I tested for duck. I’m waiting for the green light on that.” There was a pause. “But Lily Palmer wasn’t anywhere near any ducks.”

  “Could it be marabou?” Crowther asked quickly.

  “Could be, yes.”

  “All the Marilyn Monroe girls wear marabou feathers,” Crowther told her. “Interesting to see if the third victim has a feather particle. She had only auditioned.”

  “We won’t know for a day or so. But just in case we draw a blank on that – did Sadie Morgan have any pets?”

  “Lily had a cat. I don’t know about Sadie. I’ll get Eric to ask the mother.”

  “Something else interesting – the handwriting on the two notes. Each note was written by two different people.”

  “So there could be two killers, like the guv said?”

  “No – two people on each note. Whoever wrote the word Now didn’t write Your Turn. The Os are different. The person who wrote the second O is probably left-handed. The handwriting expert reckons the second O starts from the left and the first one starts from the right. Definitely two people.”

  ***

  Back at the car, Banham’s phone bleeped to tell him he had a message. It was Crowther; Banham called back, and the young sergeant rapidly ran through the new informati
on he’d squeezed out of Ray Adams. Banham cut him short. He wanted to call the station for an update on the uniform team sent to the Bay Estate to find Otis Gladman.

  “They legged it, sir,” the desk sergeant told him, “but the report says one of the youths called another one Gladdy.”

  Banham thanked the sergeant and clicked the phone shut. “Looks like he is living on the estate,” he said to Alison. “He’s probably in a squat somewhere. The gangs look out for each other.”

  “So the stabbing of his friend might have been down to gang rivalry?”

  “Gangs. No wonder Bobby’s scared out of his wits. He hates school now, and he used to enjoy it.” He closed his eyes. “Crowther’s going to get Gladman to write something, to see if he’s left-handed,” he went on after a few moments. “His clothes have already gone to Forensics, although if he’s Chang’s poodle he’ll have changed them. We won’t have any problem getting a warrant now, though – he’ll have dumped his other clothes in the cottage.”

  “If it is his writing, it will still only prove he wrote the notes, not that he killed them. And no note was found with Sadie.”

  Alison braked sharply and leaned on the horn as a car pulled out from a side road. Banham swallowed hard. “I still think there are two killers,” he said.

  “Maybe Chang ordered the murders, and different people carried them out.”

  “Let’s hope Isabelle got the job.”

  “I’m still not sure about those PCSOs,” Alison said.

  “Isabelle’s very experienced,” Banham said. “She came a very close second to Crowther for the sergeant’s post. But it’s not my case; it’s your call. If you’re not happy, pull them out.”

  “Eddie Chang knew about Amy Bailey’s murder this afternoon. How long before he susses there are three undercover police in his club?”

  “Your call,” Banham said again. “But we only have two days. After Wednesday night the club will be shut down, and Eddie Chang will be behind bars for a very long time.”