by Linda Regan
“Lily knew she was being followed,” Millie piped up. “She said she thought it was one of those weirdos that follow celebrities. He wore a raincoat and dark glasses, and an obvious wig – as if he was deliberately in disguise. That could be Ray Adams.”
“It could be anybody,” Alison snapped. Millie was still annoying her. “All we do know for sure,” she went on, “is that Ray Adams killed Lily Palmer, Amy Bailey and Josh Timpkin.” She counted off the points on her fingers. “All the women worked as Monroe lookalikes. They were all smothered. Sadie and Lily had identical animal hair on them; Amy didn’t. Lily and Amy were killed in similar ways; Sadie’s murder was different. Are we missing something here?”
“We need to identify that hair,” Banham said.
Crowther chipped in. “The FME has taken a hair sample from both the Gladman boys, just to eliminate them really.”
The fax on Crowther’s desk started whirring. He leaned over and pulled the paper free.
“It’s from Forensics,” he said. “The hair found in the women’s windpipe contained some kind of perfume.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Isabelle said, “Hairspray. In the Monroe wigs. They’re made out of animal hair, aren’t they?”
“Eddie Chang wears a toupée,” Millie said uncertainly.
Banham shook his head. “He doesn’t do his own dirty work.”
Crowther was still reading the fax. “It looks as if the hair came from a bird,” he said.
“There were ducks in the pond with Sadie Morgan,” one of the detectives said. “But why in the second victim’s throat?”
“Bruno Pelegino’s mother runs a sanctuary for wounded wild animals,” Banham said.
Alison nodded.
“Birds too?”
“I think so. And Bruno is living with her. I think it’s time to pay her another visit.”
***
“What mother wouldn’t alibi her son if he was in trouble?” Alison said. “Apart from his cousin, that’s all he’s got going for him. Remember the CCTV outside the club? I said it was him all along.”
“And then Chang had the other two killed.”
“We still don’t know why. Amy Bailey had only just auditioned. It doesn’t add up.”
“Perhaps we’ll find something when we go into her background.”
Alison turned the car into Mrs Pelegino’s street. As she began to reverse into a parking space, Banham cast his mind back to her thirtieth birthday, when he had bought her a set of advanced driving lessons. As she banged the pavement for the third time, he thought he might ask for his money back. How could anyone make such a mess of a simple job like parking in a side street? There wasn’t anything much behind or in front of her, yet her bonnet stuck out and the wheels were at an angle. He decided to say nothing, but propped a Police sign in the front window. At least that that would save them from being towed away.
Mrs Pelegino opened the door before they had time to ring the bell.
“Now what?” she said desperately. “He’s not here, and he’s a heartbroken man. Why can’t you leave us alone?”
“Can we come in?” Alison pushed past her, giving her no chance to refuse.
“Do you know it’s an offence to obstruct a murder enquiry?” Banham said flatly.
“I haven’t done anything,” the woman objected. She was dressed shabbily in grubby trousers, and soil clung to her boots.
“Have you been digging something up,” Banham asked her.
“Or burying something?” Alison added.
“I’ve been helping a trapped badger,” she snapped. “I run a wildlife ambulance and I nurse wounded animals.”
“Where was Bruno last Friday evening?” Alison asked
“This again? How many times must I tell you? Last Friday evening my son was with me. He came home here after work, soon after midnight. I cannot say the exact time.”
“Have you got any at the moment?” Banham asked her.
“What?” Mrs Pelegino looked puzzled.
“Wounded animals?”
“No. The cat has had a litter. I have the kittens in the kitchen.” She brushed her hands down her trousers and narrowed her dark eyes. “That’s how she was, that wife of his. Irresponsible. Didn’t even get her cat neutered. Thank God she didn’t have my grandchildren.”
Banham walked past the woman into the kitchen. The cat lay on its make-do bed with half a dozen pink-skinned Burmese kittens sucking on her. Alison knelt beside the creatures.
“Guv, look at this.”
Banham knelt down beside her.
The cat lay on a pillow, discoloured and yellowing, with a bright red stain on one corner.
Banham looked up at Mrs Pelegino. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it,” she snapped. “It was in a skip at the end of the road. Is it a crime to take an old pillow for a needy animal?”
“Where exactly did you find it? And when?” Banham stood up and moved away, leaving Alison to relieve the spitting, clawing cat of its bed.
Mrs Pelegino pushed Alison her to one side. “Let me do that.” She pulled the pillow and some ragged clothing from under the unhappy creature, handed them to Alison and took off her own cardigan and pushed it into the basket. “I found it on the corner of the street, Saturday morning I think, as I walked to the news-agents. The cat was about to have the kittens. It was all there, on top of the other rubbish in the skip. So I took it.”
“Sadie was murdered in the small hours of Saturday morning, and you didn’t think to tell us.” Alison was rapidly losing patience.
“Why would I think it had anything to do with Sadie?”
Alison pushed the pillow into an evidence bag and the remnants of muddied clothing into another. “I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station to make a statement,” she said formally.”
“What about my kittens?” the woman asked quietly.
“Call your son,” Banham said acerbically. “He lives here, doesn’t he?”
Chapter Fifteen
Isabelle was on her break. She sat down at a table near the bar and kicked the red stilettos under the table. She hated them, and the tacky red dress that the Marilyn lookalikes wore like a uniform. She was much happier in jeans and trainers. She had to keep reminding herself that there was only one more day to put up with being told how to wiggle her arse and hold a cocktail tray simultaneously. As soon as CO19 entered the building, the shoes were coming off. She’d work the raid barefoot, and never, ever would she put her feet through this kind of punishment again.
She scratched at her thigh, where her change purse was embarrassingly sewn into a fluffy marabou garter. It rubbed her skin and made it itch. It was still early evening, and hardly anyone was around; she had only served two customers since she arrived, and one of them was Andrew Fisher. He was propping up the bar, gazing at Millie up on stage miming to I Wanna Be Loved By You. The man looked genuinely besotted.
Eddie Chang seemed pretty enthralled with Millie too. His smile spread from ear to ear, stretching his crooked scar in a really creepy way. The man definitely had a screw loose, Isabelle thought. Marilyn Monroe was the only thing he showed any respect for.
Isabelle didn’t like Millie much; she thought she had got too big for her boots because of her affair with Crowther. But her talent as an impersonator was without doubt; Millie had the full bust and curvy hips, and she could do the wiggle and the famous Marilyn pout. Most important of all, she knew how to command Eddie Chang’s full attention; that would be a big plus when the raid kicked off.
Millie seemed to enjoy doing it. Isabelle would have kicked Eddie Chang in the balls long before now, if he’d looked at her like that. Bad enough he tried to teach her to pout and stick her arse out. This cocktail waitressing was more than enough to put up with.
She swallowed a mouthful of her lager. The temperature was just right; it slid down her throat and calmed her edginess. She was waiting for the opportunity to get into the cottage; she need
ed to learn the geography of the place to give CO19 the upper hand tomorrow. She scratched at the nylon wig; the hairpins securing it were stinging her scalp. One more day and they’d wipe that smile off Eddie Chang’s ugly face and see him finally behind bars where he belonged.
She cast her eyes around, mentally checking all exits and entrances to the club again. Andrew was still watching Millie with that besotted look on his spotty face; at least he would look out for her tomorrow: one thing Isabelle didn’t need to worry about.
She downed the rest of her lager and went back to the bar. Her mobile chirped. She pulled it out from the change purse and checked the caller screen; the word Mum had appeared, code for Crowther.
Andrew was by the bar. She threw him a look and he picked up on it, ordering another drink to hold the barmaid’s attention while Isabelle took the call. Eddie Chang was talking to Millie, and Terry King wasn’t around; only a couple of other customers were in the place, both too far away to notice. She tucked herself into a corner and put the phone to her ear.
Crowther brought her up to speed. The pillow and clothing from Mrs Pelegino’s had gone to Forensics; Penny had just rung back. The red stain was lipstick, and it contained Sadie Morgan’s DNA. This was the pillow that had suffocated her. According to Mrs Pelegino’s statement, the pillow and clothing had been dumped a skip between the park and the club.
Penny had also found foreign fibres on the clothing, and was in the process of testing them against Sadie’s DNA. Penny had said the pillow was filled with goose feathers, which accounted for the hair found on the first two victims. This blew a hole in Banham’s theory about two murderers; it suggested that the first and second murders had been done by the same person. If they could link the pillow with Ray Adams, it would look as if he had killed Sadie too, despite the lack of DNA evidence.
Crowther hoped the pillow might come from the cottage at the club. “Can you get into the cottage?” he asked Isabelle. “Confirm if the Ukrainians are already there, and then find a pillow and throw it out into the alleyway? We’ve got a couple of uniforms out there – they’ll drive it over to the forensics lab.”
“Will do. What about the Gladmans? Have you let them go?”
“Well, Johnny did write the Your Turn notes like he said. And the one Bobby Banham got was Otis – turns out he’s left-handed. The guv doesn’t reckon they were in on the murders, but we’re keeping them here anyway. They don’t seem to mind much!”
Isabelle looked around the club. It was quiet and everyone was occupied. Now was as good a time as she’d get.
“I’ll go out to the cottage now.”
“Good girl. We’ve got a warrant, but we don’t really want to use it. If those Ukrainian girls are in there, we want them to stay put so we can catch Chang red-handed. A warrant would only make him suspicious. We can’t afford any slip-ups this time.”
Isabelle clicked her phone off and slipped it back into the purse.
“Cover for me?” she asked the barmaid. “I need the loo. My stomach’s giving me gyp.”
“No pra-h-blem,” the girl replied in a mock-Bronx accent that irritated the hell out of Isabelle. She caught Andrew’s eye then glanced at Eddie Chang, hoping he got the message and would keep Chang from following her.
The Ladies was next to the changing room, and there was another door to the courtyard from there. She prayed Terry King wasn’t in the changing room; he spent most of his time there, dressing wigs and sewing and maintaining the lookalike costumes.
The cottage would be in darkness, and she couldn’t risk turning lights on. Terry had a torch; as long as he wasn’t around she could borrow it. She might have to climb in through a window, maybe even on the first floor; that would mean clambering up on to the outside wall. In this outfit she was wearing it wouldn’t be easy. If Terry wasn’t in the changing room, perhaps she could slip her jeans and trainers back on.
The fates were on her side; Terry wasn’t there. Quick as lightning she grabbed her jeans and scrambled into them. She kicked the high-heeled shoes under the steel rail and grabbed her comfy trainers. She had a foot in one and was rummaging in Terry’s box for the torch when a voice behind her made her jump out of her skin.
“Have you been dismissed?”
Terry King.
She had it planned. “My mother’s just phoned. She’s not well. She has the beginnings of Alzheimer’s, and she’s locked herself out.” She started unpinning her wig. “She needs her medication. I’m the only one with a spare key. I’m just going to pop home, let her in and give her the pills, then I’ll be straight back. She doesn’t live far.”
“Leave the wig on,” Terry snapped. “I don’t want to have to dress it again, it takes far too long. You’re not a natural at all. Just take the dress off.”
Isabelle didn’t argue. She stopped pulling at the hairpins, zipped her jeans up and wriggled into her tight black t-shirt, grabbed her leather jacket and headed for the door to the courtyard. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Terry’s face. It gave nothing away.
When she reached the door he was still staring at her. “My car’s the other side of the alleyway. It’s quicker if I nip out this way. I’ll be back before anyone knows I’m gone.” She tried to look coy. “Please don’t grass on me. He’ll dock my money and I need it badly.”
Terry made no reply. He bent down and scooped up the dress she had purposely dropped on the floor to play for time.
In the courtyard she stood for a moment trying to suss the CCTV. If she stayed close to the wall, she was out of range. She stepped quickly around the edge towards the cottage. She reckoned she had ten or twelve good minutes, as long as no one followed her out.
She sprang nimbly up the wall, and had one foot on the window ledge when something moved below her.
She took her foot off the ledge and stood on the wall, keeping very still, ready to jump into the alley on the other side if she had to. Time was ticking away; she had a precious few minutes before the CCTV turned to face her. After an endless few seconds of silence, she raised her foot again and was about to hoist herself on to the drainpipe when she heard another noise. It was definitely footsteps this time.
Millie Payne was in the courtyard, in her long red dress and stiletto-heeled shoes. She was pressed up hard against the wall, and it looked as if she had just managed to duck the CCTV.
Isabelle whispered angrily and urgently, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Andrew’s keeping Eddie and Terry King talking. I’ve come to help you.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. Dressed in stiletto heels and an ankle-length dress! Where was the woman’s brain? Other considerations aside, Eddie Chang wouldn’t think twice about having them both shot if he caught them.
But she didn’t have time to waste arguing; she needed to get up on to the ledge and through that window.
“Stay out of sight of the CCTV,” she snapped. “And keep a lookout.”
Fortunately her phone was easily accessible. She quickly tapped a text into it, to let Alison know she was about to go into the cottage with Millie on lookout, and would need back-up if she didn’t make contact again within half an hour. She decided texting Crowther was a bad idea; his involvement with Millie had seriously skewed his judgement.
She pressed Send, stowed the phone, and braced herself to climb up on to the first floor window ledge. With horror she saw that Millie was already there, crawling on all fours, still wearing the stiletto-heeled shoes. The long red dress spilled over the side of the ledge and looked worryingly as if it might trip her up any second.
“For Chrissake!” Isabelle tried to keep her voice to a whisper. The woman was a complete liability. “How the hell did you get up there?” She checked the CCTV; it hadn’t swung round in their direction yet, but time was ticking on. She probably had about seven minutes left. “Get down! I can’t be responsible if you fall.”
“No chance.” Millie had reached the window, and was prising
it open. “I’m brilliant at climbing.” She swung one leg over the sill. “I’ve got a dog that climbs trees and gets stuck. I’m always having to rescue him. I’ll go down and open the front door for you, shall I?”
“You can’t turn any lights on.” Isabelle warned her. “And I couldn’t get hold of a torch. You’ll have to feel your way in the dark.”
Millie pulled a tiny pocket torch from her garter. “I was a girl guide,” she said.
Isabelle was impressed against her will. “Just be careful,” she hissed.
She checked the CCTV camera again; it wasn’t moving as fast as she’d thought. They could do this, as long as no one came out of the club. If someone had come out a few seconds ago, they couldn’t have missed seeing Marilyn Monroe disappearing through the window with her bum in the air.
Alison clicked her phone off. “Isabelle is outside the cottage. Millie is with her, and Andrew is inside the club,” she told Banham. “She said to send back-up if we don’t hear from her within half an hour; my feeling is she’s in trouble if we hear nothing in fifteen minutes. I think we should get over there, pronto.”
Banham nodded agreement. “You said Millie Payne is with her?”
“At the moment she’s all the back-up Isabelle’s got.”
Crowther was shrugging into his coat. “You keep underestimating Millie,” he said. “She’s a lot cleverer than you give her credit for. She knows how to look after herself.”
Alison glared at him. “I’ve got two words for you. Ray Adams. After that little bit of misjudgement, I think you’d better stay here and wait for the results from Forensics.”
Crowther subsided into a chair, glowering at her.
“Have CO19 been brought up to speed?” Banham asked.
“They’re standing by,” Crowther replied.
“Then let’s go.”
It took Millie less than a minute to get the front door open. Isabelle slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind them.
The only light was the tiny circle from Millie’s pocket torch.
