“And you are?” the burly policeman on the information desk asked.
“Mrs Dennison.”
“Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“I’ve got information on the murderer.”
“Which murderer?”
By now Theresa was beginning to feel she was being interrogated herself. Just like a suspect would be.
“I didn’t know you had more than one,” she said rather stuffily. “The one called the Choker.”
“That’s a term used by the press, not the police.”
“Well, whatever the hell you call him, I want to see DC Douglas. Now are you going to tell him I’m here?” Theresa had risen to her full height, which was still considerably shorter than the man in front of her and therefore not at all intimidating.
“Wait over there,” he said indicating a row of plastic chairs fixed to the wall. “Please?” he sighed as she refused to move until he’d asked nicely.
“Very well,” she said and did as she was bidden.
Actually she was rather glad to sit down. She’d begun to sway and didn’t want the officious policeman to think she was drunk, or on drugs, or something. She needed to be taken seriously.
While she waited she sipped her water, hoping it would make her feel better sooner rather than later. She needed to keep it together while she talked to DC Douglas.
It was a little over fifteen minutes before he appeared. Walking over to her he said, “Sorry, Mrs Dennison, but I can’t see you at the moment, I’m on my way out.”
Theresa panicked. “Oh please, it won’t take a minute. It’s about my husband.” She felt ashamed to be pleading with the young man, but needs must.
“Again?”
“Yes, again. I’ve been following him and he’s now been in the vicinity on the night of all three murders. Here,” she thrust the diary at him. “I’ve written it all down in there.”
DC Douglas took the diary, but she felt he was reluctant, rather than excited by her offering.
“Alright, I’ll read this when I get back,” he said as he turned, ready to walk away.
“And then there’s the S-Dates account thingy.”
That stopped him, she saw with some satisfaction, as he turned his attention back to her.
“He has an S-Dates account?”
“Yes.”
DC Douglas sat down next to her, the row of six chairs groaning, as they were connected to each other.
“Have you opened it?”
“No, I didn’t check his account as I didn’t want to take the risk of him knowing that I’d looked at it, as I didn’t know how it worked.”
“So you don’t know his user name or anything?”
Theresa had to admit she didn’t. It seemed all she really had still, were feelings, and no concrete evidence.
“Well,” Douglas said at the end of her confession. “I still have to go out, but I’ll look at the diary when I get back and discuss it with the rest of the team.”
“You’ll let me know if I can help any further? Or at least tell me what’s going on?” She couldn’t help pleading with this young man, desperate as she was that he take her seriously.
“Of course,” he said. “Well, I’m sorry, but I really have to go now,” and as they stood he shook her hand and she watched his back as he walked away, all the while hoping he wasn’t walking away from her for good.
Ciaran
The reason Ciaran was rushing away from Theresa Dennison was simple. He was on his way to meet Donna for lunch. They’d arranged to meet in the small shopping centre next to the police station. He’d decided on one of the restaurants, not feeling that the café in the Morrison’s supermarket was exactly romantic.
Not that he was feeling romantic towards Donna. He smiled. Well, actually that was a big fat lie. The last time they’d met they’d enjoyed a drink in the bar in Donna’s hotel. He could easily have made a move then. But he’d restrained himself. She was floating in a sea of insecurity and anxiety and he wasn’t about to make her feel even worse by frightening her with an unwanted advance. She was struggling with her flat mate having been killed by someone she’d known, or at least had agreed to meet for sex, so it would have been incongruous for Ciaran to put Donna in a similar position and one she may have considered dangerous.
He was aiming to make her feel secure, by being there for her. As long as she didn’t end up seeing him as a brother. Heaven forbid. That would be awful. Maybe he’d best take a small step towards a romantic relationship, before he blew it altogether. He just wished he was more experienced in these matters. He’d had a couple of girl friends at university, but they hadn’t been the focus of his attention. He’d been far more interested in the course he was taking and that had therefore consumed most of his time.
He quickened his stride as he caught a glimpse of her sitting in the cordoned off area outside the restaurant. When he arrived, the sight of her took his breath away. She’d ditched the work make-up and her skin glowed, her eyes sparkled and her mouth creased into a smile. As she rose to her feet he took the opportunity to give her a kiss on both cheeks and a slight hug. His skin tingled where she’d kissed him back and if he wasn’t careful he’d end up with a goofy grin on his face for the next hour. Hiding behind the menu gave him a chance to pull himself together.
Once they’d been served, he decided to talk about the case and said, “I’d meant to ask you, did Sally mind you going away so much?”
“Not at first,” said Donna, putting down her knife and fork. “But she started to talk about it over the past few months, I think.”
“Why?”
“Well, she’d broken up with her long-term boyfriend and hadn’t had one since. So she really was living alone there, whereas before he’d stayed over a lot when I was away.”
“Did she do anything about extra security?”
“How do you mean?”
“Extra door or window locks? An alarm system perhaps?”
“No,” Donna shook her head. “Not that I remember and I suppose I’d have noticed if she had.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
“Are you any nearer working out who killed her?” Donna asked.
Ciaran had been waiting for that one. She always asked about their progress. And why shouldn’t she? She had never been affected by crime before. But he had nothing new to tell her. At least nothing positive.
“The only thing we have is that a particular car was noticed in the area of the killings.”
“What kind?”
He wasn’t sure telling her that would help and in fact it was something that hadn’t been released to the press yet. But then again, it might not hurt.
Before he could decide what to do she said, “Please, it would help me. If I saw such a car near to my flat I could let you know.”
She had a point, he decided, so he took the plunge. Anything to keep her safe. “A red Suzuki Jeep. The model is called a Jimny.”
“Thanks, Ciaran,” she said and to his surprise she took his hand. “It means so much knowing I’ve got you to call on if anything happens, or if I get frightened on my own.”
Not wanting the moment to end, he covered her hand with his other one. “You can call me anytime,” he said. “I’ll always be there for you.” He wanted to say much more, but he held his tongue.
The waiter interrupted the romantic interlude, which burst the bubble they were encased in and they both jumped a little. Ciaran let go of her hand. Feeling slightly bereft he said, “Do you want anything else?”
Donna looked at her watch. “No, sorry, I’d better go. I’ve got to go into the office at Heathrow this afternoon and I better get a move on.”
Once Ciaran had paid the bill, they manoeuvred their way out into the large plaza.
“Want to meet up again?” Ciaran asked, hoping he didn’t sound too beseeching.
“I’m flying again tomorrow, going to the US this time,” she said. “But I’d love to see you when I’m back.”
>
Ciaran grinned and decided it was now or never, as he moved in to kiss her. He was still anxious about the proprietary of it all, as she was the dead girl’s flatmate, but still, rules were meant to be broken, or at least bent.
As they pulled apart, Donna said, “I’m feeling very vulnerable, Ciaran. I keep thinking the killer will come back for me. It’s stupid, I know. I’ve moved back into the flat but I’m too scared to stay there alone. I was wondering… would you be able to come round tonight?”
Crane
Ciaran had just made his little speech to Crane and Anderson about his short chat with Mrs Dennison and had been dismissed by Anderson, having been told to leave the diary behind.
“What do you reckon, Crane?”
“We’ve sod all else,” Crane grumbled and squirmed in his chair, trying to get comfortable and wondered if he needed to keep a collection of cushions at work. He had one in the car and a load at home. It seemed to ease his injuries if he had a something softer to sit on. Also the slight elevation of his hips helped as well.
“All this proves, though,” said Anderson thumbing through the diary, “is that he was in the vicinity at the time.”
“Or he says he was. We don’t know if he was the first and second times. He could have been lying, as Mrs Dennison openly admits.”
“Alright,” Derek sat up, seemingly having come to a decision. “Let’s have a chat with him.”
“What? Call him in for interview?”
“No, let’s call on his professional services shall we? I feel the need to consult with an expert, and one that lectures in criminology should be right up our street.”
“Hasn’t Ciaran a degree in criminology?”
“Yes, but the Professor doesn’t need to know that does he?”
“Well you’d better explain to Ciaran first what you’re doing and why, otherwise he’s going to be a very unhappy puppy.”
“What’s got into you? Suddenly gone all caring on me have you?”
“No, Derek, it’s called professional respect,” Crane bristled.
“Jesus! Can’t you take a little joke anymore? I’m just pulling your leg, Crane. Let’s call Ciaran and Holly in so they know what’s going on.”
Crane struggled to stand and limped out of the office. After telling Holly and Ciaran to get themselves into the office, “PD bloody Q,” he stopped off at his desk drawer and dry swallowed a pain killer. He kept trying to bring down the dose he was taking, but every time he missed a pill he’d get uptight, angry and sullen. He really must get a hold on it all, maybe after this investigation was over. If he wasn’t a basket case by then.
They’d managed to arrange to see Professor Dennison at the end of his teaching day. As that was at 3.00pm - mid-afternoon to Crane and Anderson who couldn’t get over such an early finish - they barrelled over to Reading University. The Department of Law was on the main campus and by having a chat with a nice parking attendant, managed to get a reserved space near to the building.
Crane was glad of the opportunity to stretch the kinks out of his gammy leg, but he’d only just got into his stride before they arrived at their destination. He was still having difficulty juggling his work/life balance and as a result the physiotherapy exercises he was supposed to be doing were losing their important place in his daily regime. Tina kept suggesting he return to a physiotherapist, for at least that would make him do something about it two or three times a week. But, like a lot of things, he hadn’t got round to organising it yet. Maybe when the case was over… Then he realised this was rather becoming his mantra.
A passing student directed them to Professor Dennison’s room and Crane knocked on the large wooden door with the handle of his stick. After hearing a shouted something, muffled by the thick door, Anderson turned the handle and they walked in to a large room with mullioned windows, high ceilings and a large rug, whose pattern was mostly undetermined, because of the large number of students’ feet that must have crossed it to the desk located by the window.
The Professor stood as they entered and introduced themselves, and they ended up doing an awkward round of handshakes over his desk. Crane half expected the desk to have one of those large embossed leather sections on the top of it, to go with the whole ‘this is a traditional seat of learning’ vibe, but was surprised to find a large industrial, utilitarian metal one.
Dennison must have noticed Crane’s puzzled look, for he said, “My mahogany desk is being renovated and would you believe this was the only spare one I could find? It’s bloody cold to the touch and noisy to use,” and he demonstrated opening and shutting a drawer with a screech. “But I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
Crane thought Dennison looked less like a beggar and far more like the respectable, well-to-do educator that he was, with his soft Viyella checked shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows worn over a pair of dusty coloured chinos. He reminded Crane of an off-duty army officer, an image which brought with it a pang of regret.
“Anyway, how can I help the police?”
Anderson explained they were with the Hampshire Major Crimes Unit. “Have you heard of our murder cases that have been in the news lately?”
“Ah, the Choker.”
Anderson sighed audibly. “Yes, that’s what the newspapers and the television are calling him.”
“Or her,” said Crane, just to be awkward.
“Exactly,” Anderson said, throwing a glare at Crane.
“It’s best to keep an open mind about these things.” That got Crane another dagger look from Anderson, which he took as a sign to keep his mouth shut.
“So why are you here?”
Anderson said, “If I’ve got it right, criminology is much more than the study of committing crimes; it is the understanding of how crime affects society as a whole from a range of perspectives, including social, historical, legal, political, and psychological.”
The Professor grinned, “You sound like our departmental brochure.”
As Dennison didn’t say anything else, Crane jumped in. “We’re particularly interested in the motivations behind the criminal or deviant behaviour displayed by our killer.”
Dennison rested his chin on the knuckles of one hand. But still didn’t join in the conversation. To Crane it felt like he was employing one of their own police interview techniques on them.
“So we want to know all about the kind of person who would be into breath control play; more properly known as asphyxiophilia.”
At last Dennison spoke. “Isn’t that more a question for a psychiatrist?”
“He wouldn’t be able to give us a social background of such a deviant. We want to know what type of person this could be; we need more than just personality traits.”
“So you’re thinking of age range, social status, employment, that sort of thing?”
“Exactly,” said Anderson. “Can you help us?”
“I’d need access to your files.”
Anderson picked up his case and opening it pulled out three slim buff coloured folders and handed them over. “I must ask for complete confidentiality,” he said, before he let go of them.
“That goes without saying,” said Dennison.
“Not in my line of work, sir.”
Crane could hear the steel in Anderson’s voice and wondered if Dennison had picked up on it.
“I can assure you of my complete discretion,” he said. “I take it this is urgent?”
“Very,” said Crane, who was fed up with keeping quiet. “How soon could you give us your professional opinion?” with a hint of sarcasm on the word professional.
“How does two or three days’ sound? I’ll ring as soon as I’m ready.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Anderson, passing over a business card and rising from the hard, ladder backed chairs they’d been sitting in. He nodded to Crane, indicating the door with his head.
“What is wrong with you?” fumed Anderson as Crane limped back to the car.
“Well, the pompous idiot r
eminded me of officious army officers.”
“Jesus, I see army bigotry is still alive and well and living inside you.”
“He’s an academic. He has no idea of the outside world and how it operates. Did you see his jacket? Did you?” Crane pulled open the car door. Banging it shut behind him he turned to Anderson and said, “His jacket has leather patches on his elbows. Can you believe it? I know his sort,” and Crane turned away to jerk his seat belt across his chest.
Ciaran
After hours of trawling through CCTV footage from around the murder site in Southampton, Ciaran found something. At last. A fleeting image of a Suzuki Jimny Jeep. He couldn’t seem to find it anywhere else other than it exiting the M27 going towards the university. But he did have a partial number plate. He now had the same car in all three locations.
Leaning back and stretching in his seat, he was tempted to go and tell Anderson or Crane about his find, but for once decided to curb his enthusiasm for spreading the good news and just get on with the next task in hand - finding Suzuki Jimny Jeeps with that partial plate in Hampshire. Then he had a thought. The incidents took place in Hampshire, but that didn’t mean to say the killer lived there. He, or she, could live in a county close by. That meant he had to widen his search with the partial plate. Looking on a map he’d pulled up on his computer, he decided the killer could potentially live in Surrey or Sussex to the East, Dorset to the West, or Berkshire to the North.
He stilled for a moment. Berkshire. That rang a bell. Reading was in Berkshire. Professor Dennison worked at Reading University. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility he’d travelled to Aldershot, Portsmouth and Southampton from Reading. Just as his wife had said. A quick search of the DVLA revealed that Profession Dennison had a Honda Civic. Bugger.
He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. It looked like Mrs Dennison was a bit paranoid after all. Oh well, it had been worth a try.
Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2) Page 9
