“Bloody untidy,” he muttered, as he made his way to the master bedroom. It wasn’t like Marie to leave the house in such a mess. If nothing else she had always kept the place spick and span and even his mother had agreed with that.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed, as he saw that the wardrobe doors were wide open. Some of the clothes were lying on the bed and it was evident that Marie had packed in a hurry. He twisted the chain in his hand and swung the nunchuck down hard on the bed.
Gibbs and Jane stepped into the stinking lift of the council block and went up to floor six.
“Which flat did she go into?” Jane asked.
“I dunno . . . I just saw her into the lift and she asked for the sixth floor. I didn’t go up with her, so we’ll have to try them all. I’ll start at 600, you start at 640 . . .”
Moran looked at his watch. “He’s been in there over an hour.”
Edwards yawned. “Maybe this is a waste of time. It doesn’t look as if he’s going anywhere.”
“Yes, he was. He asked that taxi to wait for him.”
Inside the house Allard pulled on a black tracksuit and a pair of Adidas trainers. He looked out of the window and swore when he saw that the taxi had gone. “Bastard!” he muttered. He then put in a call using the phone in the hallway. He needed cash, as he’d not found any in the house.
He went into the kitchen, put two slices of bread on a plate, buttered them, and opened the cupboard to take out a jar of Marmite.
Gibbs and Jane had no luck with their door to door inquiries. Nobody had heard of Janet Brown, Mary Kelly or Angie, and no one had seen a black girl with a toddler. By now they had knocked on every door on the sixth floor. Two flats had not answered so the residents could be out. In most cases the occupants were abusive, slamming their doors shut. No one wanted to admit to knowing anyone when the police were involved.
“Well, that’s it then,” Gibbs said.
“You know who I think might know where she is, and if she’s working one of the clubs? That ginger-haired boy, Philip.”
“Christ! Does that mean another trek into Soho?” Gibbs moaned.
“You don’t have to come with me, Spence. I’ll find her on my own,” Jane said tetchily.
“Listen, Jane, I’ve already explained about Moran. I just covered my arse, all right? I didn’t drop you in it, but you have to learn you can’t just hurl dirt at a good officer like Moran without severe consequences. I was looking out for him, OK? I didn’t even intend talking to him but he was in the pub and asked what was going down . . .”
“All right, all right. Are you going to come with me, or not?”
“Yes . . . but it’s my day off as well, you know,” Gibbs said, reluctantly.
They returned to the patrol car and Gibbs radioed in to Moran to say they had not been able to warn Janet Brown so they were now going off to see if she was working one of the strip clubs.
Moran was becoming impatient. After receiving the call in from Gibbs he had hoped they would be able to follow Allard and see if he led them to Janet Brown. As there was no show, he was not going to wait any longer but would go into the house and check it out. He slammed out of the car, and Edwards hurried after him. He kicked the door in and shouted, “Police . . . POLICE!”
They moved from room to room, unsure if Allard was in the house. Not finding him downstairs, Moran went cautiously up to the landing, while Edwards looked in the cupboard under the stairs. The door to the room used by Allard as a gym was half open, the splintered wood all over the carpet. Moran eased the door open wider with his foot before entering but it was empty; he then went into the bedroom. All the wardrobe doors were wide open, and disturbingly there was an array of women’s clothes left torn and shredded over the bed. Moran then hurtled down the stairs as Edwards yelled from the kitchen, “He was onto us, he’s just legged it.”
The kitchen window looked out over the small back garden. It had a low fence; each property had a similar type, and the end of terrace had a high brick wall. Edwards and Moran watched Allard climbing up and taking two attempts to make it to the top.
“Get out, cut him off,” Moran shouted.
As Edwards raced down the road, Moran hurtled out of the front door and threw himself into the patrol car. He started up the engine and did a fast U turn, the tires screeching as he drove to the end terraced house.
Edwards was bending over, panting and gasping for breath, and they could both see the black taxi disappearing down the road.
“Shit.” Moran hit the steering wheel with his hand as Edwards got in beside him.
The numerous small turnings up ahead gave no sighting and Edwards radioed in to Gibbs to inform him they were following a black taxi with Allard as passenger.
Moran shook his head. “We’re not following, we’ve bloody lost him.”
“There it is, up ahead,” shouted Edwards. Moran put his foot down and at speed overtook the taxi and swung the car to stop directly in front of the vehicle. There was no passenger, just a very startled cab driver who put his hands up in the air, terrified.
Gibbs and Jane were walking down Berwick Street. They had stopped by various strip clubs, some closed and not opening until the evening. At one small dingy club, Gibbs had removed a photograph of Janet, and the bouncer was very unpleasant and abusive, saying she had not worked there for weeks, that she was black trash and a loud-mouthed bitch.
Armed with Janet Brown’s photo, they continued moving along the road, and stopped at the adult bookshop. The blinds were down, and the “closed” sign in the window. Gibbs hammered on the door but no one answered as it was too early in the afternoon, and Berwick Street was almost empty.
“Let’s do another round of the clubs,” Gibbs said, as they moved off. They were just turning into Wardour Street when Peter Allard got out of the Underground station in Oxford Street. He did not go via Wardour Street but walked down Regent Street, turning left into Argyle Street and passing the Palladium Theater, then Liberty and the Magistrates’ Court to head into Berwick Street from the opposite direction. He was very tense, constantly looking over his shoulder.
He got to the adult bookshop, but made no attempt to try to gain entrance by the shop’s front door; instead he eased warily toward the small white door beside it.
It was chipped and peeling and had no number or door knob, but a substantial key hole, and just above it was a small eye hole for anyone on the other side to check who was at the door. He gave two bangs of his fist and waited; he then repeated it, and pressed closer.
He heard the key turning, and the door was inched open by Stevie, the pot-bellied owner, who was wearing a pajama top, stained trousers and slippers.
“Hello, Stevie, lemme in.”
“Shit, we’re not fuckin’ open.”
“Yes you are, lemme in.”
Stevie begrudgingly unhooked the chain and opened the door. He knew Allard because he was a regular customer and bought his porno magazines and steroids from the shop, but he didn’t like being forced to open up. He walked along a dirty, bare-boarded narrow hallway, passing the door that gave access into the shop, Allard following behind. Above were the rooms the girls used for their clients and where Stevie had been sleeping. They continued into a small back room with racks of stacked magazines, some of them still boxed and some in an old locked cabinet as they were pornography with more graphic content. There were also drugs bagged and tagged, and bottles of extremely potent steroids.
“What you want? Take your pick, but make it fast.”
Allard said he wanted the pills, not any magazines, and Stevie unlocked the cabinet, selecting the usual container and held it in his hand.
“You got the cash?”
Allard dug into the deep pocket of his tracksuit jacket with his left hand as if he was about to hand over the cash, but he used his right to bring out the nunchuck he had tucked into his waistband at the back. He was so fast, Stevie didn’t see it coming, and the crack against his scalp was so vicious he sank to his
knees. He tried to grab hold of one of the racks containing the magazines and it toppled over onto him. Allard stepped over the unconscious man, and picked up the container before turning back and out into the small corridor.
He knew this area, knew the girls rented the squalid rooms upstairs. This was where he had first met that tart Angie, and this was the place the red-haired kid worked—the kid Marie had described, that took his money. Just thinking of his wife made him tense with rage. He’d find her and when he did, he’d beat the living daylights out of her.
He went up the stairs and checked each dingy room before he sat on one of the dirty sheets, opened the container and took a fistful of small yellow pills.
It was getting dark and Soho was coming alive. Gibbs and Jane met up with Moran in the car park they had used previously. By now Moran had assigned a few uniform officers to search for Angie as well as Allard. There was one positive piece of news, and that was they had now been granted permission to start lifting the paving stones at the Allards’ previous residence. As they had his passport they knew he could not escape abroad.
“Allard will be looking for Janet, and as we’ve not been able to trace her, maybe he’s having the same problem.”
Jane said nothing. They were sitting in the patrol car and the smoke was making her eyes run as the men were all chain smoking.
“She’s a wily lady. I mean, she took me inside that estate, I saw her get into the lift, and she was lying. Press the sixth floor, she said, it’s the one where someone stubbed their cigarette out. I saw her do it and then left. I never went up with her . . .”
Jane agreed. “We knocked on every door on the sixth floor, apart from two. Maybe we need to go back. None of the residents were that helpful, they just slammed the doors in our faces.”
Gibbs sighed. “Listen, this is not my case, pals. I’ve been legging it around all afternoon and it’s now getting dark; the tart could be anywhere, and so could Allard.”
Moran stubbed out his cigarette and turned to Jane. “You want to give it one more try at that estate, and I’ll do another round of the clubs? Spence, just drop her off, and Jane, radio in if you find her.”
Gibbs drove Jane out of the car park as Moran and Edwards started to head toward the red light district. They stopped to buy a hot dog each and then heard the ambulance approaching with the lights flashing and bell ringing. A uniform officer approached and said that there was an altercation in Berwick Street at the adult bookshop and the woman who owned it had called in the police.
Moran watched as the still unconscious Stevie was carried on a stretcher into the ambulance and the paramedics began to try to resuscitate him. His wife was sobbing and swearing at the same time as she said she would find the bastard. Her husband had only one dried wound to the side of his head; apart from that there was no other physical sign of violence. She said it had to have been some pervert after money but she had already locked up the cabinet of drugs.
Moran was standing in the corridor where the rack of magazines still lay on its side as Stevie’s wife became very agitated and wanted him to leave as she was going in the ambulance.
“I got to lock up . . . you can come back another time.”
“Shut up,” Moran snapped.
“I am not leaving without locking the doors, it’ll be an open bloody invitation, there’s stuff in here worth a lot of money.”
Moran turned on her and told her to be quiet again, when he saw a trail of blood, not from beneath the rack but closer to the small staircase. She tried to interrupt him again but he ordered her to go and get in the ambulance.
“I can’t leave this place open,” Ada wailed.
Moran ignored her and began to slowly move up the stairs. Spots of blood could be seen, and then as he reached the landing there were blood splatterings against the wall. He pushed open the door and could see the small figure curled on his side, his red hair matted with blood, his face badly beaten, blood bubbles gathered at his open mouth. Moran went over to him. The poor kid was terrified, his eyes wide, and he even tried to ward off Moran.
“’S’all right, I’m not going to hurt you. Do you know who did this to you? Look at me, come on, I’ve got an ambulance outside. You know who beat you up?”
Ginger started crying and then nodded his head. “Big guy . . . he hit me wiv this thing on a chain. Oh God, he done me head in.”
“Listen, you are going to be looked after, but tell me why he did this to you.”
Ginger spat out blood as Moran held him upright in a sitting position.
“Angie, he wanted to know where Angie lives.”
“Did you tell him?”
“What you fuckin’ think, he was crazy. I told him.”
It was another few minutes before the boy was able to give Moran the address.
Moran picked the injured boy up in his arms and carried him out.
“Oh Jesus God, that’s Ginger. Ginger, who would want to do something like that to him, he’s just a kid!” Ada began screaming in hysterics as Moran carried the boy out into the street to the still waiting ambulance. He spoke urgently to Edwards.
“We get the car and get over to Janet Brown’s estate. It has to have been Allard. Radio in to Gibbs that we’re on our way.”
Jane got out of the car and slammed the door.
“I’m going,” Gibbs said.
“Fine, Spence, you go, or just wait until I come out and you can take me back to the section house. It’s my day off as well, you know.”
“It’s not my bloody case,” he moaned.
He watched her heading up the pathway to the estate entrance. She had the photograph of Janet Brown in her hand. She turned back and gave him a smile as she went in through the main doors. He felt a bit guilty. He knew he wouldn’t drive off and leave her, he was just pissed off at losing almost an entire day off.
Inside Jane stood in the lift and looked at the floor numbered buttons. Floor six did have a burn mark, as if someone had stubbed out a cigarette against it. The lift was rank, smelling of urine, and dried white chewing gum covered the filthy carpet. It moved slowly upward, clanking and grinding. Once it lurched and she thought it was going to stop, but it continued upward.
The lift door opened, and Jane stepped out. She headed for the two flats where previously there had been no answer. She rang 615 and waited but there was still no one at home. She moved to flat 620 and was about to ring the doorbell when a thin-faced woman with a trolley bag came toward her.
“Excuse me, I am trying to contact this woman, she has a young child. Can you look at the photograph? I was told she lived on this floor.”
The woman moved closer and stared at the photograph of Janet Brown.
“She’s round the corner by the stairwell, go through the doors.”
Jane smiled. “Thank you very much.”
“That’s all right. I live here.” She took out her keys to flat 620, and Jane moved down the corridor. They had made a mistake, presuming all the flats were located along the landing. They had not considered there was another flat by the stone stairwell.
Jane, annoyed at all the time they had wasted, pushed open the double doors. They had cracked panes of glass and graffiti on them, and where the old carpet stopped there was a stone floor leading onto the stairwell. The flat’s front door was painted green, chipped in places, and the brass letter box was in need of a polish. Jane had her hand on the old bell cemented into the wall. It also had brass surrounds but the button was missing. She put her hand out to push the letter box flap instead of knocking, but the door slowly opened a few inches. She hesitated and gently laid the flat of her hand to open it wider.
Still being very cautious, Jane moved a few steps into the hallway. A child’s pushchair and toys were left on the floor. A large red tin toy double-decker bus lay on its side. The carpet was threadbare but the hallway was clean, an old upright hoover was propped against a wall with a full basket of laundry beside it. Hanging on a hook was the blue rabbit fur coat, an
d with relief Jane knew she was in the right flat, so she walked more confidently toward an open door that led into the sitting room. It was worn but comfortable, a sofa and an easy chair with a big throw rug in front of an electric three bar fire. Jane was about to call out for Janet, but stopped as she could smell a strong sweet unpleasant smell of body odor.
Allard had seen Jane enter. He was in the kitchen at the far end of the hall, the door open just a crack. He’d beaten the hell out of the ginger-haired kid to get the address and he’d been waiting for Janet. By now, Allard was sweating and hyper, and he eased back toward a cabinet to open a kitchen drawer. It made a scratching sound as it opened and it contained dishcloths and tea towels. He tensed up, listening, and then eased back another drawer that contained kitchen knives.
Jane heard the noise as her heart began pounding. She was sure that someone was in the flat and the fear made her freeze, because she was certain it was Allard. She tried to control her nerves and think where the sound had come from, but as she didn’t know the layout of the flat, she couldn’t be sure. It felt as if she was trapped in the room. She took deep breaths, telling herself that the sound had to have come from the left at the end of the hallway, and she would have to get out of the room and run to her right to escape.
Gibbs lost his attention on the road for a moment, as Moran was on the radio saying they would be there in minutes, so he missed Janet Brown walking into the estate with a bag of shopping, only catching her as she walked into the reception area.
“Nick, I think I’ve got her, she’s here at the estate,” Gibbs said into the radio, getting out of the car. He ran into the flats’ entrance as the lift began to move upward. He looked at the old dial, which didn’t work, unable to tell which floor it was moving to. He pressed the call button again and waited.
Jane had looked around the room for anything she could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. She decided to run for it, and as she got to the hall the kitchen door flew open and Allard came at her, holding the knife up above him, making stabbing motions, and then slashing down toward her body. As she backed into the room, the knife wedged into the wooden door and he began dragging it loose.
Hidden Killers Page 38
