by Linda Regan
“Yes – as soon as his solicitor arrives.” He hesitated a moment, then leaned towards her. “Um, are you doing anything tonight?”
Alison’s face flushed warmly. “Guv?”
He was feeding coins into the machine.
“I don’t know what time the solicitor will get here, of course.” He kept his back to her. “You are free tonight, are you?”
She was always free. Why would she not be free? The only man who interested her was standing right here in front of her. She was more confused than ever, but decided to put it down to his need for company in the wake of another g-string victim.
“Yes, as it happens, I am.”
“Good.” He looked at the plastic cup in her hand. “Would you like another coffee?”
“No thank you.” She tried to be brisk and businesslike but knew she wasn’t making a good job of it. “Why do you suddenly want to know if I’m free?”
“I need a favour.” He ran his hand through his hair and took his own plastic cup of coffee from the machine. “Ah. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you must be thinking.” He turned away from her again and fiddled with the buttons on the machine. “I’m not making a pass at you, Alison. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Adding insult to injury or what, she thought.
“It’s just that… Well, I’m worried about Lottie, and the kids. There’s something going on. It needs a woman’s point of view and you’re…” He paused obviously trying desperately to choose the right words. “I know you’re more like one of the boys, but you are still a woman…”
It had been a very long day, and she had spent some of it under her car, lying on the dirty road changing her tyre. She was uncomfortably aware that she looked at her worst; no man in his right mind would fancy her, especially not with someone like Katie Faye on the horizon. At that moment her dearest wish was that for just one hour of her life she could look like Katie.
But the humiliation hadn’t finished.
“I thought we’d have a takeaway. At your place, if that’s all right. If it makes you feel better, you can pay half. But please, help me out here. I really need to talk to a woman about this.”
She reminded herself that this was a particularly difficult case, and it had been a long day for him as well. But all the same, who did he think he was? Her eyes dropped to his waistline. It had definitely widened in the seven years she had worked with him, and the beige and green checked shirt and dark brown cords he was wearing were hardly a fashion statement. His face was nice in a boyish sort of way, and his blue eyes sort of hooked into you, but Hugh Grant he wasn’t. What was the attraction? She really wished she knew.
“Oh, there’s certainly a woman in here somewhere. So my current date tells me.” She watched for his reaction. “And yes, as it happens, I am free tonight.” She sipped her coffee to give herself time to gather her confidence. “He works nights, sings in a rock band.” Shock passed over Banham’s face, but she was on a roll. “And I may not have Olivia Stone’s boobs, or Katie Faye’s fringe, but I do have a brain, and you’re welcome to pick it. So feel free to pay for the whole of the takeaway, which you can eat yourself, to add to your expanding waistline. Then you can bend my ear with your problems. That’s what mates are for.”
He looked at her strangely, but she found she couldn’t stop. “Of course I’ll help you sort out Lottie’s problems. I like her a lot.”
She flicked her empty cup toward the bin, and for once it went straight in. She smiled smugly and turned and walked towards the toilets. She pushed the door of the Ladies and looked over her shoulder at Banham. “Nah. I’m one of the boys, isn’t that right?”
She walked into the Gents.
Banham understood the strain she was under. This third murder had got to all of them.
He waited outside till she emerged from the loo.
“Why don’t you call it a day?” he offered. “I think I may do better with Ken Stone if I take Isabelle in with me. The man’s a womaniser, and she’s probably more his type.”
“She’s going to interview Judy Gardener,” Alison reminded him. Her tone confirmed she wasn’t in a good mood.
“I can change that.”
“No need. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
The black specks in her sludge-coloured eyes had expanded and were shining so brightly they looked as though they might catch fire. He followed as she walked back to the incident room.
Crowther was wearing his Know-all Col look.
“I know it’s after hours but I’ve found a judge to sign a search warrant,” he told Banham. “So while you’re interviewing Ken Stone, and before I pay Judy Gardener and Kim Davis a visit, I’ll take a team round there and turn the Stones’ house upside down.”
“Well done!” Banham said enthusiastically. He knew exactly how difficult it was to track a judge down after court hours. Trust Crowther. He really was on a mission to make sergeant.
Banham called in his office before following Alison to the interview room, and found a fax on his desk. One of the older detectives on the team had tracked down the people who had bought the lease on the Scarlet Pussy Club. A Mr and Mrs Diante.
Ahmed Abdullah’s daughter had sold the club as a going concern shortly after had been murdered. That was of no particular interest to Banham; the sale which had caught his attention had taken place six years ago, when the club’s fixtures and fittings had been auctioned.
Now DC Downs had tracked down the auctioneers. Once he came up with the paperwork, they would have names and addresses of anyone who had bought costumes.
Ken Stone’s solicitor was tall and thin, with a head shaped like a cricket ball. He wore bifocal glasses, of which Banham had a great dislike; they meant he couldn’t read the wearer’s eyes.
The lawyer had the same over-educated, over-articulated accent Max Pettifer suffered from. Banham decided he disliked the man even more than his eye-wear.
“What exactly are you charging my client with?” he demanded brusquely, staring angrily at Banham over the top of his glasses.
Banham decided to play the courtesy card. “Nothing at all, sir. He is helping us with our enquiries. For the moment I just need to ask him a few questions.”
He was taking no chances; no matter how heavy the solicitor got, he wasn’t letting Ken Stone go until he was certain the man wasn’t involved. He was certain Theresa’s death could have been avoided, and determined it would be the last. But he had nothing concrete to justify keeping Stone in custody, since his son refused to provide a written statement about the domestic violence. All Banham had left was humility, at least for now. It wasn’t easy after seeing Theresa’s mutilated body, but it was a small price to pay to nail the killer.
“You could have asked me questions at home,” Stone said.
“I was protecting you. I’m sure you didn’t want the neighbours talking.” That was true at least, Banham thought. “I decided the best solution all round was to bring you in, in an unmarked car.”
It seemed to work. Both the solicitor and Ken Stone sat back in their chairs and relaxed.
“I want Brian Finn charged with assault,” Ken said defiantly.
Banham leaned back in his chair and interlinked his fingers. He had heard about the fracas in the reception area earlier, and was sorry he had missed seeing this fat bully of a man get a good clump. He would have given a lot to dish it out himself.
“I would ask you, under the circumstances, to reconsider that,” he said politely. “Brian Finn found Theresa McGann’s body.” He looked straight into Ken Stone’s flabby face and added, “Her throat was carved open and the floor was awash with her blood. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“My God!”
“So you’ll reconsider an assault charge?”
Stone was visibly flustered. He gave a quick nod. “Under the circumstances.”
“When was the last time you saw Theresa McGann?” Alison asked him.
Stone’s cheeks reddened. “She was at our house, a couple of days ago.” He rubbed his face. “My wife has known her for years…” He looked at his solicitor, his embarrassment plain. “Brian Finn is blackmailing us…”
“We know about the videos.” Banham leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “So Theresa was round at your house a couple of days ago. Why was that?”
“To talk about Finn’s release from prison and the blackmail note my wife received from him.”
“This whole thing must be very uncomfortable for you,” Alison said.
Ken nodded and looked at the table. Alison continued, “The press are like vultures. You couldn’t let them get hold of those videos.”
Ken’s head flew up. “I didn’t murder her, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” He turned to his solicitor. “My wife and Theresa worked together when they were students. They both got pregnant at the same time. I married Olivia, and Finn went to prison. My wife felt sorry for her. Her child…”
He lowered his eyes. “Well, she’s not right. She’s…”
“Mentally handicapped,” Banham prompted.
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “We had a healthy son, and then a daughter, Ianthe. Theresa had no one, and her mother is a drunk. Olivia and I helped her bring up the child.”
“Very benevolent of you,” Banham said flatly. He held eye contact with the man.
Ken stared back, then flicked another embarrassed glance at his solicitor.
“You were a regular at the club where they worked as students, the Scarlet Pussy,” Alison said. “In fact, I understand you were there every night.”
Stone reddened again. “That was twenty years ago,” he protested. “I was twenty years old, and single.”
“Where did you go when you left the station this morning, before you arrived at your house?”
“I told you. I had a meeting.”
“Who with?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to,” Alison said.
Stone looked at his solicitor again. The skinny ex-public school man’s head nodded like a plastic dog in the back of a car. “With me,” he said. “I can vouch for Mr Stone’s whereabouts.”
Banham looked speculatively from one man to the other. Then, as if on cue, his phone rang. He excused himself and went into the corridor.
It was Crowther. He had just left the Stones’ house with a large collection of pornographic videos he had found in Ken Stone’s study. They were all labelled Scarlet Pussy Club.
Banham returned to the interview room. First he glared at Ken’s solicitor. Then he settled back in his chair, enjoying the moment. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said with icy civility to Kenneth Stone, “but I’m going to have to detain you for a few more hours. My team have just completed a search of your house, and they’ve found what appears to be a collection of pornographic videos. I’m sure you know that certain kinds of porn are illegal. I’m sure these won’t turn out to be those kinds, but until we have sorted through them all and checked the contents, we won’t be able to let you go.” With growing satisfaction he watched Ken Stone slump back in an embarrassed heap in his chair, looking desperately at his solicitor. “Hopefully,” he finished, “we won’t need to keep you too long.”
From where Isabelle sat on the sofa beside Crowther she could see into the kitchen. Judy was busying herself making tea in a large, bright yellow china pot. It was one of those modern open plan houses where the lounge and kitchen ran into one; wherever you were on the ground floor, you could see everyone else.
Kim sat with her feet up on the floral armchair opposite the one Crowther had settled in. She wrapped her long arms around her legs. Isabelle thought Kim had grown even thinner in the few hours since she last saw her. Her baggy jumper looked way too big for her, and the black leggings finished a good couple of inches above her thin ankles, revealing red blotches and flaky dry skin on her pale legs. Her short dark hair was uncombed and stood on end; she looked as if she had just climbed out of bed. She wore no make-up, and pimples decorated her pallid complexion.
“Sorry to be the bearer of that news,” Isabelle said to break the silence.
“We need you to account for your movements for the whole of today,” Crowther added. “I’m sure you understand it’s standard procedure.”
Isabelle watched Judy squeeze the tea bag. The policewoman’s back was to them, but she answered before Kim had a chance to speak. “Yes, of course we understand the procedure. We were here, together, weren’t we, Sausage?”
Kim nodded, her eyes vacant. “Yes, all day,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Can anyone can confirm that?” Isabelle asked.
Kim shook her head. “No. It was just us.”
Judy came in with the tray and placed it on the table in front of them. She heaped sugar into one of the mugs and handed it to Kim.
While Isabelle sipped her tea, Crowther explained that surveillance would be in place that evening. “It’s extra security,” he told them. “Under the circumstances, the guv thought it was best.”
Isabelle couldn’t help but notice the glare Kim shot at Judy.
“I wasn’t here at all this afternoon,” Kim reminded Judy after Crowther and Isabelle left. “Why did you lie?”
“It was for the best, Sausage.”
“I was only at the school, sorting costumes for the end of term show.”
Judy picked up the tray and made for the kitchen. Kim shouted after her, “They only have to ask at the school. Anyone will tell them.”
“They won’t ask, though.” Judy clattered the crockery in the sink. “I’m a copper. They’ll take my word. Don’t fret, Sausage.”
“Where were you, then?”
There was a silence, then Judy swung round to face Kim. “Outside in the car, reading the paper, waiting for you.”
“That’s not true.”
Judy stared at her. “Kim, you’re upset.”
Suddenly Kim burst into tears. “You bet I’m upset,” she shouted. “Theresa’s been murdered. It could have been me. You said you’d look after me.”
“Oh, Kim!” Judy rushed to take her in her arms, but Kim jumped up and backed away and against the wall. “You weren’t reading the paper. You weren’t there at all. It could have been me lying in the morgue.”
Judy sat down, her eyes never leaving Kim’s face. “Come on, Sausage. You’re upset and confused.” She put her hand out but Kim turned away. “You said you needed time on your own in the studio to sort out costumes. I was outside in the car.”
“I needed to find that trunk that we got from the club auction,” Kim said, suddenly calm again. “I needed to see if there were any more red g-strings in there.”
“Now, listen, Sausage.” Judy stood up and grabbed Kim’s upper arms. “You’re not well. You’re still having bad dreams. And I am going to protect you, just as I promised I would. But you must do as I say.”
“OK.” The fight went out of Kim and her body went limp.
“Do not tell the police that there were red g-strings in that trunk. When they ask, which they might, you say there weren’t any.”
Kim nodded meekly. “There weren’t.”
“That’s OK, then. The murder investigation team will go after Ken Stone now. He’s a ghastly individual. He beats his wife and children. He should be locked up, whatever he has or hasn’t done. That’s a favour we can do for Olivia.”
“All right,” Kim said quietly. “If you say so, Judy.”
12
It was nearly one in the morning by the time they’d finished at the station. DC Crowther, living up to his nickname, recommended a Chinese takeaway that did good food and stayed open most of the night. He gave Banham and Alison clear directions, suggesting, with an expectant raise of the eyebrows, that it wasn’t far from Alison’s flat. Banham seemed oblivious, but Alison glared at Crowther, and in return received a Know-all Col wink.
Alison cl
aimed she wasn’t hungry. The truth was she would never consider lining her stomach with anything so fattening so late at night. The lasting effect it would have on her hips was unthinkable to someone who had flirted with anorexia throughout her teenage years. At any normal hour, a takeaway Chinese was laden with calories, and would be a rare treat. The guilt associated with enjoying food had never left her.
Banham was annoyingly indifferent to her protests. He ordered two portions of sweet and sour chicken, and when she said she absolutely would not eat that any of it, he promptly told the assistant to add chicken fried rice to the order.
The smell wafted into her nostrils as she stood beside him in the takeaway. All she had to look forward to was a large black coffee and the hope of being a pound lighter by the weekend. She must really care for him, she told herself, to put up with this level of temptation. If only the food didn’t smell so inviting! She had been up since six and hadn’t eaten a thing all day; it was enough to make anyone want to eat the paper package and all.
She reminded herself that she still carried three extra pounds from Christmas, and her metabolism was nothing like Isabelle Walsh’s. That woman ate anything she liked, and had a gorgeous figure, slim and curvy. Alison had to work out in the gym for hours to keep herself toned, or every morsel she swallowed migrated to her hips.
Isabelle boasted that the only exercise she indulged in was sex. That wasn’t on offer for Alison. The nearest she’d got with Banham was a kiss and then he’d run away fast enough to give any girl a permanent complex. He wasn’t interested; he had made that very clear. But judging by the way looked at Katie Faye, he was certainly interested in women. He had given Olivia Stone’s cleavage more than a passing glance too; perhaps he was a bosom man, in which case she had no chance at all; she needed padding in a 32A bra cup.
She prayed she had gathered up her smalls from all over the flat; she left them drying in every nook and cranny, without a thought for discretion. She couldn’t bear Banham to see her heavily padded Wonder bras and thongs spread all over the radiators. She crossed her fingers as she unlocked the front door.
It wasn’t her lucky day. Her undies were on display on the radiator by the front door. She quickly scooped them up with the pile of mail on the mat, blushing furiously as she hugged the bra cups, all as flat as three-day-old champagne, to her chest.
