by Helen Phifer
‘When we find him,’ Rachel muttered.
‘We’ll find him, have a bit of faith. I’m not denying this isn’t a difficult case, because it is. We’ve had two brutal murders with no motive that we know about yet. I do believe they’re linked, and Catherine should be able to give us the hard evidence to confirm this theory. I want to concentrate on David Collins today; Browning and Rachel, you can have first watch. Let’s see what he gets up to. He told his wife he was out visiting parishioners yesterday afternoon. I want to know if he was, but if he wasn’t, then where was he? Up to now we have a volunteer and a service user dead, and both women have connections to his church. Both murders have a religious element to them, too. Collins swore blind he didn’t recognise Sandy, but if she’s been there and she was as loud as Natalia said she was, then I think he’s lying. I’m also not convinced by his wife’s alibi. I get the impression she would lie to stick up for him, despite them having what looks like a strained relationship. You know how it is, some people don’t believe their loved ones can be capable of such violence, when we know the bitter truth. It seems that Sandy liked a drink, so can we have the pubs nearest to her home address checked to see if anyone knew her or if she was a regular in any of them? Browning and Rachel, if you do the day shift I’ll take over later on. Col, you concentrate on the pubs. Hopefully by the end of the day we should be in a much better position to bring him in for questioning.’ She was already feeling more positive about the cases.
Her phone rang and she answered it.
‘Good morning, Lucy, I have some interesting results for you. Do you want them over the phone or would you like to meet me at my office in ten minutes?’
‘Morning, Catherine, I’ll come to you. I have no one to make my coffee.’
The pathologist laughed. ‘Good job you have me to look after you then. See you soon.’ Lucy hung up and turned to Browning. ‘I’m going to see Catherine Maxwell, I’ll ring you later and see where you are. Be careful and try not to let him know we’re watching him. Or he might go to ground.’
* * *
Catherine’s office was situated along the corridor before the mortuary, and Lucy could smell the fresh coffee as soon as she walked through the double doors into the corridor. Knocking on her door, she waited for her to open it. Lucy did a double-take; how did she manage to look so damn glamorous this early in the morning?
‘Wow, you look amazing.’
Catherine laughed. Her cheeks flushed pink. ‘Lucy, this is why I love working with you. You always say the nicest things. Thank you, I’m in court this afternoon and have no pms this morning. I thought I’d make an effort. You, my friend, look tired, did you sleep last night or the night before?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll sleep when I catch the bastard who is murdering the women in this town.’
‘You work too hard; I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this.’
Catherine poured a large mug of filter coffee, added some fresh cream and passed it to her.
‘It’s not a vanilla latte, but it’s good quality caffeine.’
She took a sip. ‘It’s beautiful, that’s what it is. So what have you got for me? Please say you have a DNA match for someone on the system that I can go and arrest right now before anyone else has to die.’
‘Ah, I wish I did. It would be nice to catch a break now and again, wouldn’t it? Those television shows make it look all too easy, even I get annoyed with myself because I’m not solving the cases as fast as they do.’
Lucy nodded. ‘A girl’s got to dream.’
‘They certainly have. Now for something different; the hairs collected off both victims were cat hairs; you remember the hairs recovered from Sandy Kilburn’s nightie? I’ve sent those along with the cat hairs found on Margaret Crowe to an old university colleague of mine at Leicester. He works on the cat DNA database in the forensic science department. Do you remember the groundbreaking case of David Guy back in 2012?’
‘No, was it local?’
‘No, this was in Hampshire. His dismembered body was found wrapped in a curtain which contained eight cat hairs. The suspect had a cat called Tinker. The cat hairs were sent to California for analysis, and the mitochondrial results showed there was a genetic match with the suspect’s cat, and no matches among the 493 cats on the American cat database. They also created a UK cat database, using a random sampling of 152 cats, to show how rare it was that the cat DNA matched the hairs found in the curtain, as cat DNA has fewer variants than human DNA, and is not as accurate as a genetic marker.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Well this is where it gets interesting for you. The cat hairs taken from the clothing of both victims have an identical genetic make-up, which would appear to confirm it’s the same killer.’
‘Or both victims came into contact with the same cat.’
‘Possibly, but I think it’s unlikely. The hairs taken from Margaret’s cat are not a match. So, when you find your man or woman, if he has a cat, which I’m pretty sure he has or someone very close to him has, we can send a sample off for testing against the hairs we already have, and if they match you’ll be able to link him or her to both crime scenes and the victims’ bodies. Case closed.’
Lucy tried to process the information. ‘Wow, that’s clever stuff. There’s only one problem with it, I just need to find my killer. Thank you, it helps a lot, I think.’
‘You know me, I’ve always been a geek. Hopefully you’ll catch a break soon and when you do this will definitely help you to secure a conviction. It’s all added evidence that places him at the crime scenes.’
She finished her coffee and stood up. ‘I’m sure it will. Good luck in court.’
Lucy left feeling hopeful; things were coming together in a roundabout way.
Chapter Forty-One
Browning was eating his third sausage roll, while Rachel was still nibbling away at the first half of her cheese and tomato sandwich.
‘Here we go, he’s finally come out to play.’ He pointed his grease-stained finger at the man leaving the vicarage.
‘Thank God, my arse is going numb sitting here.’ Stuffing her sandwich back in the box she turned the engine on.
‘Erm, Rachel, he’s on foot. Can’t exactly follow him in a car, can we? It might look a bit too obvious.’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry. I didn’t think of that. Go on then, you can follow him and radio me when you want picking up.’
He looked at her. ‘Sod that, age over beauty. You’re fitter than I am, my knee’s giving me a bit of gip. You follow, and I’ll pick you up.’ If he had to listen to Rachel moan about her boyfriend’s lack of domestic skills and what to wear on Saturday night much longer he might have committed murder by sausage roll when he shoved his last one down her throat to choke her.
She got out of the car muttering under her breath, and he grinned. He didn’t care; she looked a lot less obvious walking behind him talking on her phone than he would. He waited for her to faff around, then she swung her bag over her shoulder and walked off, sticking two fingers up behind her back for him to see. It made him laugh out loud. He had no idea what the boss was on; he didn’t think the vicar had the balls for the killings – although sometimes people surprised you when you least expected it. She might be right for all he knew. She had been in the past, and at least they were doing something productive.
The vicar headed the short walk into town, towards the promenade. Rachel wished she’d wore her trainers today instead of the short heels. Bloody Browning was a lazy pig. He had flat shoes on, he’d have been able to walk better than she could if he hadn’t just consumed half of Greggs. The vicar was in a hurry, walking faster than she could. It didn’t matter, there weren’t many people around and he wasn’t hard to pick out from the crowd with his black shirt; he’d removed the dog collar when he got out of his street, stuffing it into his pocket, and then he’d carried on walking until he reached the flats on Bridlington Court. This was a bit out of his way. Surely he di
dn’t have any parishioners that lived here? These flats were well known for being full of druggies, alcoholics, and prostitutes or at least unofficial prostitutes.
Pulling out her phone, she began an imaginary conversation when he stopped sooner than she’d expected and knocked on a ground floor flat. He turned around scanning the area and looked at her. She ignored him, talking loudly into her phone.
‘I’m here now, babes, what number did you say? I forgot. I’ve got something to cheer you up.’
The flat door opened, and he stepped inside. It shut quickly behind him.
‘Bridlington Court; get your arse here now. I’m freezing, and my feet are bloody killing.’
When the car pulled into the street, she jumped inside. ‘He’s in that flat, number twenty. He clocked me before he went in, but didn’t take any notice. You better park down there so he can’t see us when he comes out.’
Browning did as he was told, parking behind a battered old Corsa with one wheel missing. Rachel got her radio out and asked the control room for an address check. Browning was on the phone to Lucy.
‘Boss, he’s gone into 20 Bridlington Court. Didn’t Sandy Kilburn live along here?’
‘Yes, number thirty-three. I’m only around the corner, I’ll be there in a minute. What’s he doing there? It’s a bit out of his jurisdiction. Can you go and peek through the windows, knock on the door and pretend you’ve got the wrong address? I’m on my way.’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Whatever she said, I’m not doing it; I had to follow him here, and I’m done for the day. Now it’s your turn.’
He got out of the car and began to stroll up the street. He knocked on a couple of doors away from the flat Collins had gone into. The blue door opened a crack, and Browning lifted his sleeve to cover his nose.
‘Police, it’s nothing to worry about just doing some enquiries. There was an incident in the street last night, did you hear or see anything?’
The man who reeked of stale, cheap booze and cigarettes shook his head then slammed his door shut. Browning continued knocking on doors until he reached number twenty, where he walked past the window; the blinds were almost shut. He pressed his face as near to the glass as he could, then stepped away as Lucy whispered in his ear. ‘What’s going on?’
He turned to her, red-faced. ‘I don’t know if you want to know, boss.’
Stepping aside to let her take a peek, he heard her mutter ‘oh fuck.’
‘Yes, what are we going to do?’
She stepped towards the front door and hammered on it, giving it her best open-up-it’s-the-police knock. There was a lot of scuffling around from inside, and the door opened slightly.
‘What the fuck do you want, knocking like that?’
‘Police, we need to talk to you about an incident last night.’
‘Well I’m busy, you’ll have to come back later.’
Lucy put her foot in between the crack of the door. ‘I can’t, it’s urgent. Let me in then you can get back to what you were doing.’
The woman with the bright red lips and see-through negligee opened the door wide, and Browning’s eyes almost popped out of his head as his cheeks changed colour. She was naked under the flimsy gown for the whole world to see. She stood there with her arms open wide.
‘No fucking respect you lot. I’m minding my own business and you just barge in.’
Lucy pushed past her, ignoring her. Browning stood there wondering where to put his eyes.
‘That’s it, darling, take a good look. I’ve got a space after this one, how would you like me to tie you up and whip you? I’ll give you a discount for being a public servant.’
He shook his head and walked past, her laughter filling the air behind him.
Lucy was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, her arms crossed shaking her head.
‘If it isn’t the local pillar of the community. Is this some kind of religious practice, Father, maybe a new kind of confession? I needed to speak to you and look what I find when we’re on house-to-house enquiries.’
Browning looked inside to the see the vicar tied to the bed, a rubber ball in his mouth. He was stark naked with red marks all over his body where he’d been hit or beaten.
‘Holy shit.’
Lucy nodded. ‘Untie him and read him his rights. I’ll get a van.’
Chapter Forty-Two
By the time David Collins had been untied, dressed and handcuffed a police van was waiting outside the flat to transport him to custody.
‘I know my rights, you can’t do this. It’s not illegal to pay for sex, let me go now, do you have any idea what you’re doing? My solicitor will wipe the floor with you, fucking useless wankers.’
‘Calm down, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. You’re not being arrested for paying for sex; if you’d listened you’d realise you’re being arrested for the unlawful killing of Sandy Kilburn.’
‘What the fuck? Who is she, I’ve never heard of her? You’re fucking mad.’ But his face which had been beetroot red turned a deathly shade of white as he stared at Lucy.
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘We’ll sort that out in custody. All you have to do is answer some questions, truthfully this time, and we can get it all sorted out.’
Two officers arrived, and she handed him over to them. He was led out of the flat to their waiting van. One of the local drug dealers who was watching with great interest lifted his phone and snapped some photos of the guy getting walked out of slutty Sue’s. Posting them on Facebook for the world to see, no doubt, and Lucy knew that within thirty minutes they would be picked up by the local paper.
Browning turned to Lucy as they watched the van drive off. ‘I hope we’re right.’
‘So do I, but at least we can question him now without his wife interrupting or defending him. Clock’s ticking, so who wants to interview the lovely lady?’
‘Not me, I’m too old to have to stare at that. I almost had a heart attack when she opened the door.’
She turned to Rachel. ‘Find out what she knows about him, how often he visits, if she knew Sandy, if he ever visited Sandy. We need to get back and speak to Collins.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Oh, and Rachel, make you sure you let her know how important her cooperation is. If she won’t talk, arrest her for obstruction and bring her in.’
* * *
Lucy walked into the parade room and breathed a sigh of relief to see most of the task force team sitting around drinking coffee. ‘I need you to do a search for me now, if possible, have you got anything on?’
They shook their heads in unison. ‘Good, it’s at St Aidan’s vicarage. I’ve just arrested the vicar in relation to the Sandy Kilburn case. The main thing I’m looking for is a cat or any evidence of a cat, a pair of big plastic earrings and a gold crucifix. Of course anything that might be of evidential value to a murder will be bloody wonderful as well. If you find me anything of relevance, I’ll take you all out for a slap-up meal. It’s that important. Oh and I don’t know if he’ll have had the balls to phone his wife when he’s been booked in, but if he hasn’t she’s a very angry woman, so you might have to use your powers of persuasion to get past her.’
Mitchell, who was the oldest out of them, laughed. ‘I’m not in the mood today; I’ll just cuff her and throw her in the back of the van for obstruction. Never had to search a vicarage before, Lucy, should be interesting to see what turns up.’
‘Well, let’s hope it turns out to be worthwhile. A lot depends on it.’
She left them organising themselves and grabbing kit bags. Now it was time to see if Collins had been booked in and a solicitor called. For the first time she wondered if she’d done the right thing: was he good for it or was she clutching at straws? The fact that he was at the house across the road from Sandy’s put him in the same area, and she had a gut feeling he’d lied to her about not recognising the woman when she’d asked him last night. Lucy always trusted her instinct because it had never let h
er down yet. Surely he would have known who she was if she was as memorable as Natalia said? It was time to find out just how much the friendly local vicar knew.
Chapter Forty-Three
He read the newspaper headlines on his phone, and didn’t know whether to be angry or happy: the police were fucking clueless. He stood up and began pacing up and down, banging his fist against his thigh harder and harder.
‘Vicar Arrested in Connection with Murders.’
This made it all the more interesting because the vicar was next on his list. He studied the photograph of the man in cuffs being led to the waiting van outside the flats. Everyone knew you went there for sex or drugs; it was unlucky for the vicar he was caught having sex so near to that slapper Sandy’s flat. He could understand the police’s reasoning; he recognised the blonde woman standing outside the flat. It wasn’t a very good photo of her, a bit blurry, obviously taken from someone’s phone camera. It was definitely her, the copper he’d seen going into the church the other night. If she wasn’t in uniform, then she was CID, so she must be the one investigating his crimes. He wondered if she was good enough to catch him. She’d latched onto the religious aspects of his murders and gone for the person who had the most in common with them. He decided she was pretty good, but not that good or it would have been him in handcuffs and not that poor bastard. Now he was going to have to wait until he was released from custody – that might be tomorrow or today if they found nothing incriminating against him. Which they shouldn’t; everything she had must be circumstantial. It had to be, because they had the wrong man. The vicar’s biggest crime was being a sleazeball, God-loving, sex-addicted hypocrite, which was enough to put him on his hit list but surely not enough to charge him with murder.
