Grabbing Tim’s shirts, she bounced up the stairs. Opening his wardrobe she pushed the other coat hangers aside and plonked in the new ones, hooking them quickly over the bar without bothering to even up the hangers, or sort the shirts in colour order, as she would normally do.
She was a woman on a mission, she decided as she got changed, uncharacteristically leaving her discarded clothes on the floor of the bedroom. She was going to prove once and for all that she was more than a stupid housewife, who only had the cleaning to fill her time. She’d show DC Douglas she was intelligent and highly motivated. Who knew, perhaps she could get a job in a police station? They took on loads of civilian staff these days, at least according to the telly. She’d have experience of evidence gathering and surveillance to put on her application form.
Grabbing her handbag, Theresa flung open the front door so hard it banged against the opposite wall. Giggling she pulled it closed behind her and headed for her car, singing as she walked up the drive, “Private Eyes are watching you...”
Crane
Holly and Ciaran staggered into the CID office, carrying two large boxes. Huffing and puffing they reached their desks and put their load down with a thump.
“You two alright?” called Crane.
“Oof that was heavy. Why can’t people use laptops at work? It’s got to be more convenient than tower systems,” said Holly. “And these bloody things have come out of the Ark!”
“Money, I expect,” said Ciaran. “If they aren’t broken, why fix them? Or rather change them in this scenario. They’re the work computers from Sally and Charlie’s offices,” Ciaran explained to Crane. “They’ve just arrived downstairs and Holly couldn’t wait for someone to deliver them, so she roped me into helping her cart them all the way up here.”
“So what are you hoping to find?” he asked Holly.
“Any social media accounts that aren’t on their phones or laptops. It suddenly occurred to us,” she smiled at Ciaran, “that maybe both Charlie and Sally wanted to keep their involvement in a dating site away from any of their friends or family. And the best way to do that would be to use a work computer instead of a personal one.”
“Wouldn’t the companies notice?”
“Not necessarily. They both worked in large offices. It’s too time consuming to have someone monitor everyone’s internet usage all the time, especially if they regularly log on for work, so most firms don’t bother.”
As Holly got her head around connecting the towers to her spare keyboards and monitors, leads and connectors growing like weeds under her desk, Crane and Ciaran turned to the only other lead they had, the Suzuki Jeep seen on the CCTV camera from the multi-story car park near to where Charlie lived.
“So, how many have we got, boss?”
“Too bloody many, son,” said Crane, who had been in this situation many times before. It was easy to get bogged down trawling through large information dumps, but it had to be done.
“Let’s see if we can find a way of narrowing down the search parameters.”
Crane and Ciaran had been at it for about an hour, changing the search criteria in terms of colour, location, male owners, female owners when Holly shouted, “Yes!”
Grinning Crane said, “I take it you’ve found something?”
“Bloody right I have. Oh, sorry, guv,” she mumbled sheepishly. “Anyway,” she continued brightening up again, “They’ve both got S-Dates accounts!”
Theresa
That morning, as he’d kissed her goodbye, Tim had a small grip bag with him and said, “Oh, sorry, forgot to tell you, I’ve got a meeting at Southampton University tonight, so I’ll be leaving Reading about 5pm and I’ll stay over down there, or in my room at Reading. Okay?”
When she didn’t respond, he said, “Right oh, see you tomorrow night then,” kissing her on the cheek.
She tried hard to not flinch when he kissed her and hoped he’d not noticed her shrinking away from him. She didn’t want him to think there was anything different about her. Over the past few days Theresa had been very busy, purchasing the things she needed for her stake out. As she closed the door behind Tim, she was thrilled that at last she had a reason to follow him. Now it was just a matter of getting ready. She couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Racing through the housework as she still had her standards and wasn’t about to let them slip because her husband was a potential murderer, at last she was finished and free to get ready.
She practised putting the wig on, tying her long brown hair up and placing the wig so none of her own hair showed. It took several attempts, her fumbling fingers not as sure as those of the saleswoman in the department store where she’d bought it. She ended up putting it in a low ponytail and then draping the end of it up onto the top of her head, fixing it with grips. That way she didn’t have a large bump in the back of her head. The short blond wavy hair transformed her face, bringing out the slight rosiness of her cheeks and warming her skin tone. Looking at herself this way and that in the mirror at her new persona, she seriously considered having a complete make-over, once this was finished. Perhaps she’d become stale and ordinary, as time had passed by. It looked like her determination to keep her hair long hadn’t been the best stylistic decision after all.
The glasses, which she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, tended to end up perched on the end of her nose, giving her a slightly quizzical look. She wasn’t keen on those at all and vowed if her eyesight ever went, she would definitely get contact lenses or even have laser treatment.
She completed her outfit with soft black flat shoes, dark leggings and a comfortable large sweater, mindful that it might be cold at night and she might not be able to keep the engine running for the heater.
Into a large shoulder bag she put her diary, which was no longer pristine and clean and empty, a paperback book she was reading, several pens and pencils and a pencil-sized torch, before going downstairs to find a small cool bag for her sandwiches and the big thermos for lots of hot coffee.
Settling down at her laptop she then proceeded to find out as much about Southampton as she could, never having been there before.
She read about how Southampton was the largest city in Hampshire with the university being one of the major employers in the region. She got bogged down in the history of the place and had to tear herself away from tales of Henry V and his famous warship HMS Grace Dieu which was built there, turning her attention to a map of the city which was far more relevant for her.
Not sure what time Tim would really be leaving Reading, she made her way over there in the early afternoon. Finding a discreet parking space in the street near to the exit of the car park where he always left his car, she sat back in her seat, adrenaline coursing through her body. She was so keyed up she didn’t know what to do with herself. She tried reading, but every few words she heard a car and had to glance up to make sure it wasn’t Tim. She got out of the car, but was afraid to walk too far from her vehicle in case he drove off and she lost him. She drank a cup of coffee, but that made her jitters worse.
At last she saw his car nosing out of the car park, waiting for a few cars to pass before a space opened up. Throwing everything onto the passenger seat, she turned the key to start her own car, very glad she’d left the key in the ignition as she doubted she would have been able to get it into the slot as her hands were shaking that much. Gripping the steering wheel, she let a couple of cars go past her, before she pulled out. As she kangarooed up the road, she berated herself for her nervousness, telling herself to pull herself together. Then she clamped her mouth shut as she realised she was talking to herself.
By the time they hit the A33 on the way to Basingstoke, she’d calmed enough to settle down and began to enjoy the experience. Once on the M3 she remembered it was a straight run through to Southampton. If Tim really was going to the university, there were three ways he could go. He would either take the early exit onto the A27, or alternatively follow the M27 and come off at Junctions 4 or 5.
&n
bsp; The rush hour traffic was upon them and with lorries and vans thundering past her, she became frightened and confused. She was by now only getting occasional glimpses of Tim’s car and as she approached the road leading to the A27 she had no idea whether he’d taken it or not. Unable to get into the correct lane herself, she was swept along with the traffic onto the M27. Fighting her way off the motorway at Junction 4, she pulled over as soon as she could and parked safely.
Her breathing was ragged and she was acutely aware she was on the verge of sobbing uncontrollably and losing it completely. She fumbled with the seat belt catch and throwing it off her shoulder, she pushed open the car door and tumbled out onto the grass verge, breathing in what she’d hoped would be fresh air and ended up being nothing more than exhaust fumes, which made her feel even sicker. Bending over and retching she wondered what the hell she thought she was doing. Once the wave of nausea had passed she gulped down a small bottle of water, which helped clear the foul taste from her mouth and ease the headache that was threatening behind her eyes.
After a while, she felt able to return to the car and determined not to admit defeat just yet, she made her slow way to the university campus intending to drive around in the hope of seeing Tim’s car. After two hours of touring the city and the university she finally admitted defeat. Faced with at least an hour’s drive back home she felt it best to get something to eat. Spying a fast food outlet next to a petrol station she pulled in.
Sitting down and munching on a piece of chicken she mulled over her experience of being a private detective. Her scalp itched from sweating under her stupid wig. She’d long ago ditched the idiotic glasses and her diary was empty as she had no information to write in it. All she’d managed to do was lose Tim at a crucial time, given herself an anxiety attack and spent a small fortune.
Oh well, she thought, as she cleaned up her mess at the table, she doubted anything would happen that night anyway. At least she fervently hoped it wouldn’t.
Boy
Lately I’ve become obsessed with the fairy tale of Rapunzel, a beautiful girl locked up in a tower with everything she could wish for. Everything, except another person. Dame Gothel shuts her away in a tower in the middle of the woods, with neither stairs nor a door, and only one room and one window. When she visits her, she stands beneath the tower and Rapunzel lowers her long golden tresses so she can climb up them.
I thought it would be fun to try and re-enact the tale. My girlfriend has a bedsitting room, where she lives alone, so last night I stole her keys while she was sleeping, left the room and locked her in. Oh, I took her mobile phone and her laptop as well.
All day I have been so excited. I couldn’t concentrate on my A level coursework. All I could think about was Annabel waiting for me. Locked in. Totally in my power. I kept wondering if she was as aroused as I was. I forced myself to wait until five o’clock. It was exquisite agony.
Because she has short hair, I knew not to go to the window and call for her. So I stand before her door. I slowly put the key in the lock and inch it open. And there she is, lying on her bed. Her eyes-lids flutter open.
“Thank God, you’ve come back,” she says.
I fall on her in my eagerness. She keeps saying something, but I can’t quite make out the words and anyway she’s putting me off. As she squirms and tries to get away from me, I clamp my hand over her mouth and with the other gather up her arms and pin them above her head, forcing my knee between her legs. This is the best sex I’ve ever had and I’m not about to let her spoil it.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Crane
It was too early in the morning for Crane’s hip. Having been dragged out of bed at 5.00am by a phone call from Anderson and then met at the front door of his house for an hour’s drive to Southampton, he’d had no chance to do his exercises and knew from past experience he’d suffer for it.
At last they arrived at their destination and he climbed stiffly out of the car into the early morning mist coating the city. Within moments he was covered in fine drizzle and felt a twinge of arthritis in his hip as it protested at the damp. Oh joy. That was all he needed. He experienced a flare of anger as he tripped and stumbled his way along the pavement. Derek moved closer and grabbed his elbow.
Crane shook it off, hissing, “Don’t!”
Anderson stopped walking and began to lag behind him, so Crane stopped also. He couldn’t believe he’d just snapped at his friend like that. At the one person who’d believed in him when Crane hadn’t even believed in himself, in those dark days after the accident.
As Anderson drew near, Crane said, “Sorry. I was out of order.”
Anderson merely nodded and kept walking, leaving Crane to stumble on, unaided, in his wake, fumbling in his pocket for yet another little white pill.
Inside the terraced house, situated in the middle of a small housing estate full of streets of carbon-copied homes, was an all too familiar scene. Upstairs a young woman lay on her stripped bed, tied to the headboard by silk scarves, with a third wound around her neck. To Crane, her expression seemed to convey her surprise at the unexpected turn of what she’d no doubt perceived was going to be a night of safe, if kinky, sex. Anderson told Crane she was Dawn Murray, aged 26. She was single and lived alone.
A discreet cough behind them made Crane and Anderson turn around, on Crane’s part a welcome diversion from the sight of yet another beautiful, dead, young woman. He shook his head at the waste.
“DI Anderson?”
Anderson agreed and introduced himself and Crane.
“DI Thomas. I understand you’re from Major Crimes and you’ve a couple more of these murders?”
“Unfortunately, yes. So we’ll be working on this as well as your local team. Three bodies means we have a serial killer on our hands I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, I’ve already been told that,” he grumbled. “I was told to hand responsibility for the investigation over to you. It seems you’re to be Senior Investigating Officer, not me. And I also understand your own pathologist is coming.”
“Well, it makes sense, don’t you think? He’s done the PM on the other two victims.”
“Nothing wrong with my bloke.”
“I’m not saying there is, it’s just that…”
“Has her phone or a computer been found?” Crane interrupted them, not wanting to listen to the two detective inspectors snipe at each other in the decidedly frosty atmosphere that was building. And anyway his leg was killing him standing up. He needed to get on with the investigation, not stand there like a Muppet.
“Nothing yet.”
“What about her car?”
“What about it?” Thomas was becoming more defensive with each question.
“Has it been checked yet?”
“Buggered if I know. Ask the scenes of crime officers. I can’t be expected to know everything.”
With a sigh, Crane tramped his way back down the stairs, wincing with each step. Reaching the hallway, he spied a set of keys hung on a key hook near the door. Pulling on latex gloves he grabbed them and went outside. A push on the key fob produced a flash of lights and a beep from the Audi on the drive. Opening the door, Crane got a whiff of perfume and air freshener, which made a nice change from the pungent smell of death overlaid with bleach that was pervading the small house. The inside revealed nothing of interest, so he hobbled round to the boot. Again using the key fob he unlocked it. As the lid swung open he was greeted with the sight of a black laptop bag. Grabbing it, it felt satisfyingly heavy.
Turning back towards the house he collided with DI Thomas. Anderson was still with him and Crane grinned at his boss. “Looks like we’ve a laptop. Our killer didn’t find it as it was in her car. He’s getting sloppy, which is good for us.”
“I’ve got people who can look at the laptop,” DI Thomas said holding out his hand.
Crane looked at Anderson.
“Thanks, but we’ll take it back to our technology specialist, just as soo
n as we’ve logged it into evidence.” Anderson’s tone brokered no dissent and Thomas turned and stalked back into the house. Crane imagined him to have smoke coming out of his nostrils and pawing a foot on the floor. A bull of a man, acting as his bulk suggested.
Both men were glad to get away from Southampton and on the drive back to Aldershot Crane noticed Anderson looked washed out and seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.
“You okay?” Crane was concerned for his friend. “You’re beginning to look as ill as I do. Want to stop for coffee?”
“No, my stomach feels too upset after seeing yet another dead body. I’d more than likely take a smell of the coffee and run for the toilet.”
“I just thought it might help keep you awake.”
Anderson turned to glance at Crane. “Do I look that knackered then?”
“Yeah, you do. Shame I can’t drive with this bloody gammy left leg.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Anderson.
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve managed to get a pool car for the team’s use. Or rather for your use as it’s an automatic. So next time we go out we’ll take that and you can bloody drive for once!”
Theresa
For a while Theresa luxuriated in the feeling of having the double bed to herself. Dappled sunlight came through the muslin curtain and all that could be heard was birdsong and the sound of a lawn mower. Some eager beaver, up early, was doing the gardening. Her expedition last night had left her exhausted and she’d collapsed into bed, being dead to the world for, she glanced at the clock, oh wow, a good eight hours. After one last stretch she got out of bed and after visiting the bathroom, padded downstairs to put the kettle on. Decaf tea, she thought, I’ve had far too much coffee lately.
Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2) Page 7
