The Sister

by China, Max

  "It's going through now, sir."

  The DCI scratched his head, causing tiny flakes of dandruff to fall. "You know what's baffling me? This Lee Harvey Oswald business," he said, brushing off the shoulders of his dark shirt. "It doesn't take a genius to work out that it's directed at me, but I can't work out why?" He stared at the ceiling as he spoke, at this point merely thinking aloud. He shifted his gaze to his colleague. "You know what the worst thing is? I don't think it's just some crank."

  "That's exactly what I thought, sir, but you know there's something else I didn't tell you."

  Turning his attention to Tanner, he said, "What's that?"

  "He sounded just like you, sir."

  "And that's significant is it, Tanner? You sound like me on the phone. I haven't got time for idle…" He struggled for a word. "Piffle." The look on Tanner's face provoked a new choice of word. "Bullshit! Happy now? Look, I'm sure hundreds of people sound like me. It's your imagination and nothing more."

  "With respect, sir, you didn't take the call—"

  Interrupted by a knock on the door, Kennedy called out, "Okay." He put his finger to his lips as the door opened, and Theresa came in putting the steaming mugs down on the desk. "Sugar, John?" she asked.

  "We can manage thanks, Theresa," he said.

  She grinned shyly at Tanner, before lowering her eyes and leaving the room.

  Kennedy noticed the smile, and it irritated him.

  "You got something going on with her, Tanner?"

  Almost choking on his coffee, he quickly put the cup down, eyes bloodshot from where the hot liquid had shot into the back of his nose.

  "Let's get that call traced shall we?" he said and shook his head in dismay.

  Tanner picked the cup back up and left with it, walking through the open office area where Theresa and the other girls were working; as he passed; he made eye contact with Theresa, neither of them said a word, but he knew he would have to start something with her. He allowed himself a faint smile. Fuck you, Kennedy.

  * * *

  Later that morning, just before midday, Tanner was back in the DCI's office.

  "The call was made on London Bridge; from a phone with a pay as you go SIM card. Needless to say - it wasn't registered, and the signal died immediately after the call, I'm guessing he took the battery out or dropped it into the river."

  Kennedy studied Tanner closely. "Any CCTV footage?"

  "We think we have him," Tanner said, "but he was wearing a hoodie if it was him, so we couldn't zoom in on his face or anything. There was a problem when we had someone look at the footage . . ."

  "Come on, Tanner get on with it."

  "There were dozens of people on the bridge making calls at the same time. Miraculously though, only one had a hood over their head, and he was stacked like a shit-house. I have a hunch that it's him."

  Kennedy sighed. "Because he was wearing a hoodie?"

  "Partly that . . ."

  "Sorry, Tanner. Do you know something? I think you're right," he said and took a deep breath. "Tanner?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "We have to catch this guy."

  The statement was obvious, but it meant so much more to Kennedy personally, than Tanner could ever guess.

  "I know, sir."

  Chapter 58

  The Mogadon Melissa took the night before had left her feeling groggy; her mouth was dry, and her head pulsed. The 'white' phone rang; she struggled to grab it as much to stop the noise as to answer it.

  She picked it up and held it to her ear, gulping the last mouthful of last night's water. A voice crooned a bit of Sinatra down the line. "Then I go and spoil it all . . ."

  "Oh Frank, is that you?" She started speaking before she'd swallowed properly, her voice gurgled - she laughed and almost choked at the same time.

  "No, it's Tony. What on earth are you doing?"

  "Water . . . I was drinking when I answered. It nearly went down the wrong way," she spluttered a bit more and then giggled, "What can I do for you?"

  "What's today?" he said.

  "Friday?" she ventured.

  "That's it, you've got it . . ."

  Frank and Tony phoned her every week, each often pretending to be the other one, teasing her for fun, trying to catch her out. Where they'd worked together for so long, they had grown to sound the same, it was difficult to tell their voices apart. Together they formed part of her regular clientele; both were city traders with more money than sense. Tony once told her that footballers would weep, if they knew how much money they were making.

  In keeping with the Marilyn theme, they pretended to be Frank Sinatra and Tony Curtis, there was a running joke between the three of them; that Tony sang better than Frank and Frank was funnier than Tony was. Sometimes Tony would joke. "Can I be Frank with you tonight?" I wish you'd be someone else. At times, he scared her witless. Tony loved them to undress together, then he'd put her clothes on and tie her up with her own stockings, stark naked. That was the part she found hardest to cope with, she felt so vulnerable; he could do anything, and she'd be unable to prevent it. He would whisper threats into her ear, which he never carried out, but the deviancy of the acts he described to her, clearly turned him on. She began to fear he might cross the line and escalate things to a level of kinkiness she couldn't deal with.

  She wondered who he was pretending to be, but he paid well, and it was all over in an hour. Usually she charged a thousand pounds a session, but he got her down to nine hundred and fifty pounds, and then always gave her a fifty pounds tip on top anyway. She guessed it made him feel generous and at the same time; it didn't cost him any more than it would have originally. It was a power thing; Tony just had to have a deal. Working it out, she managed to get by on around five thousand a week, to do that, she needed six or seven punters a week. She had two special clients that she never charged for her services. She'd rather not have been in that situation, but in any business, you have insurance to pay. This business was no different, except her insurance came in the twin guises of a detective and gang boss.

  That afternoon, Max had booked her to open a retro fashion store near Carnaby Street. The appearances he was arranging were getting too much like hard work and she dreaded it. He'd told her she needed to put a reasonable amount of her engagements through the books or she'd have the taxman after her. She suspected the real reason was that he didn't want to lose his cut of the booking fees.

  It was the first appearance she'd done since the opening of Lynch's new nightclub earlier in the week. She didn't consider herself outside the law, but Lynch most definitely was and boy, was he making it pay.

  She showered and dressed.

  That evening, once Tony had come and gone; she was relaxing in the bath listening to 'Enya' playing in the background, she loved mood music. Her flat was spotlessly clean; she kept herself spotlessly clean. Taking a shaver, she neatly trimmed herself, carefully preparing for the arrival of Lynch. He loved her smoothness. She told him she didn't mind if he decided to stay on at the club, after all; it was the first Friday after the opening, but he'd told her, "That isn't me, all that showing off. I wouldn't miss a tumble with you, babe. I'll be round later."

  He would stay the night; he treated her like a proper girlfriend, when he was with her. He knew what she did for a living, but he never talked about it and for her part, she behaved as any normal girlfriend would do. They talked of his plans, the things that bothered him. She listened. He never asked her anything much, how she felt, or anything at all. He never asked any normal questions. It was a strange relationship, but then, with you girl, they all are.

  Melissa dressed all in white; the satin dress, the gloves, the whole ensemble and applying the finishing touches, she dabbed on a little of the perfume he'd brought her and settled down for his arrival.

  She kept two mobile phones, one in a white case for 'everyday' use and another in a red case. Only two people had the number for the red-cased telephone. One of those people was Danny Lynch; he'd given
her the phone as a gift so he could have exclusive access to her. When it rang, she'd know it was him, and if she didn't answer, she'd better have a legitimate excuse… The other was JFK; he wasn't supposed to have the number, but he'd called himself on it and saved the number while she was in the bathroom one evening.

  The first time he called her on it; she thought it was Lynch. "Mr Lynch . . ." she said. There was silence for a moment. "Danny?" she said, thinking he was playing a game with her.

  "No, it's not Danny, it's me. Are you seeing Danny Lynch at the same time as me?" He sounded hurt.

  "Why no, sugar," she'd assured him. "I only see you one at a time."

  Later, when he arrived at her front door with a scowl on his face, she saw it through the viewer. He was such a child. Opening the door, she smiled seductively and dragged him off to the bedroom; within a minute or two, he didn't care anymore. After that, he never mentioned Lynch's name again. She wondered why he'd chosen the bachelor life and asked him directly once. He'd said it was to keep the people at work guessing; there were rumours circulating that he was gay, but he did nothing to dispel them.

  "If only they knew," he said.

  "Would the truth be less acceptable to them?" she asked.

  "What do you think?" he said sarcastically.

  "I think that you're such a contradiction, a hypocrite—"

  He interrupted. "I don't pay you to think!"

  You don't pay me at all. It irritated her, but she kept her thoughts to herself, him using that phone number meant she had to guard herself whenever she answered it. If Lynch knew someone else had the number, there would be hell to pay, so when he was round, she kept both phones switched off.

  The red phone was ringing.

  Think of the Devil! He's going to tell me he's staying at the club. She was actually relieved at the thought.

  She picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Marilyn?"

  Marilyn? The voice didn't belong to Lynch or JFK. She frowned into the receiver. It had to be a wrong number, but still she said, "Yes . . ." She thought she knew the voice. She wondered if one of them was pranking her. The next few words unsettled her.

  "Or should that be, Melissa?"

  What the . . .! Only two people knew her real name. Only two people had this number. This wasn't one of them. The caller reminded her of a snake.

  "Go and check your safe, and don't hang up or do anything stupid. I'll hang on - I know you have two phones - don't call the police if you want to live."

  Is this really happening? Keeping the phone at her ear, she approached the safe in a daze. The door appeared shut, but the key override was in the lock with her car keys dangling from it.

  "You've been in my house?" she said, her thoughts racing. It must have been after she'd returned from the opening. "You broke into my house in broad daylight - how!"

  "Never mind about that; I did - and that's all you need to know."

  You stupid bitch! She cursed herself . . . She kept the keys with her whenever she left the house, but it never occurred to her that anyone would rob her while she was actually in the house. When she undressed, she left the keys on the bedside table. She never heard a thing. He must have come in while she was in the bath. If he knew the people, she was screwing . . .

  "You've made a really big mistake, mister. Do you know who—"

  He cut her off short. "I know exactly who all your friends are, and I don't give a shiny shite. Listen very carefully, Melissa." The caller accentuated the double 's' in her name with a hiss. "I want a favour from you, and if you are a good girl, you'll get all your stuff back."

  She listened, too stunned to argue.

  "I don't think, Mr Lynch is going to be very happy when he hears you've robbed his girlfriend."

  The weariness in the caller's voice implied he didn't actually want to get Lynch involved, not unless he had to. "Now if you do as I say, he doesn't have to be any the wiser, it's only a small thing I am going to ask, but you need to consider your position carefully."

  Her stomach churned; she felt sick. The money belonged to Lynch. Just look after it a bit, while the club gets up and running . . . She brazened it out with him. "What, you stole nearly a hundred grand from me - and now you want to blackmail me, as well? You know what? I might just tell him myself . . ."

  "Melissa, you're too smart to do that, besides, according to your notes, ninety thousand of it belongs to him, apart from that, you really aren't thinking straight, are you Melissa?" He read an entry from her diary.

  Lynch: "Your policeman friend protects you doesn't he?"

  You: "He does."

  Lynch: "Good, then the old bill won't come here looking for anything."

  "Do you remember writing that? Melissa, you've overlooked the fact he'll think it was you who stole it. It won't be me he's going to come after; he's going to be coming after you . . ." The caller mocked her with a short, sharp, scared intake of breath. "Well, that's all right then . . . but what will our friend say, when he finds out you've been keeping a file on him?" A soft sigh, laden with disappointment came down the line. "What do you think he'll do, when he finds out about your friend in the police force? What will he think, when he is investigated for the illegal—"

  "Okay, okay - I get the picture, but I'm not promising anything until I know exactly what it is you are after."

  When he told her, she was incredulous. "What!"

  "Yeah, I know, it seems too easy, doesn't it."

  "I guess you have your reasons, but I want to know what's going on."

  "Trust me, you don't want to know. You want your money back, don't you? You wouldn't want, Mr Lynch finding out about your diary—?"

  "No – but how do I know you'll give the money back, I can't trust you . . . you robbed me!"

  "Melissa, the way I see it, you have two choices. Either you do, or you don't. Now, I want you to post on the wall of your Marilyn Mooner Facebook account as soon as he books in with you again. You will announce. 'Can't wait for more birthday celebrations' When I see it, I'll call. You will give me the details and time, and I will give you your further instructions. Do we have a deal?"

  With little choice but to agree, she told him, "We have a deal." She put the phone back in its cradle. A sense of unreality hung over her emotions. She could just as easily have laughed as cried. She felt crazy.

  What he wanted was ridiculously easy; she knew everything had a price, but what could he be planning to want that?

  As she sat thinking, the telephone rang again, interrupting her. She wasn't in the mood, but she composed herself. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up it. The caller, oblivious to her predicament, sent the sounds of heavy breathing down the line. The relief she felt swung her mood to crazy laughter. It was all she could do to prevent herself becoming hysterical; she knew exactly who this was. It was his calling card.

  "Jack?" She managed to pull herself together - ever the actress, she turned in a good performance now.

  "It's Mr President, to you!" he laughed, "I'm planning a very private birthday party for tomorrow night. I'd very much like it if I could come over to you . . ."

  A weak smile crossed her lips and her mood lifted. If she'd have told him what was happening, he'd have sorted it, but she was now confident the situation was under her control.

  "Cheeky! Well, Mr JFK . . . let me check my diary. Oh, it looks like I'm free around 11 o'clock tomorrow night." He had a 'birthday' every week; he reminded her of a man she once saw on the television, who celebrated Christmas three hundred and sixty five days a year. She thanked her lucky stars his sex drive wasn't up to that; it made her smile vaguely. She felt the loose knot in her stomach tighten as her nerves kicked in.

  "I'll see you then, Marilyn."

  "Yes, Jack, I'll see you then."

  She put the phone down and walked over to where her laptop sat and posted the message.

  A few minutes later, she received a call.

  "Tomorrow at 11pm," she told the caller in a quie
t voice. Lynch was due anytime. If he overheard, he would do more than ask questions.

  The phone disconnected. She chided herself. What are you doing Melissa!?

  The doorbell rang. She jumped at the sound. Her nerves jangled. It was Lynch.

  Chapter 59

  Kennedy's mobile rang. It was unusual for Tanner to ring him on a Saturday unless it was important. He answered it, knowing there was every chance his day off would end in a few minutes. He listened as Tanner requested a meeting with him, away from work.

  "What's this about?" he said.

  "Not on the phone, sir. We need to meet."

  "Okay . . . Why don't you come to my house," he checked his watch, "say, in half an hour's time?"

  "I'll see you then, sir."

  Agitated by the proposition Tanner had put to him, he paced up and down his living room.

  "Jesus," he said, chewing on the end of a pencil. "I can't allow that, and you know it!"

  Tanner sat forward in the chair to retrieve a glass of water from the coffee table. "Sir, we have him placed him in the pub where Kathy Bird was drinking that night, then later you saw him in the street with her. Now we have a caller, who not only says he knows what happened to her, he's saying he has Eilise Staples, as well. What else do you want?"

  "John, believe me, I want him nailed as much as you do, but we don't have anything that warrants our going sniffing around in the travelling community. What will we do, if it's just some nut that watched both cases on Crimewatch? I can't risk it, especially at the moment; it's a Human Rights hot potato. I need good, reliable evidence."

  "So, you won't allow me to do this," he finished his water and put the glass back down.

  Kennedy studied him carefully for a minute. He didn't take his eyes from his face as he spoke.

  "If you do anything without my knowledge . . . if anyone finds out about it; there'll be hell to pay. Is that clear?"