Avaline Saddlebags

by Netta Newbound

  “Yes, what is it?” Layla answered, sounding flustered.

  “Sorry, Layla, I meant to call you last night and tell you I’m going over to the scrap yard to find out what they did with the van. You coming?”

  “I’m just waiting for Mum to arrive to sort the kids out then I’ll be there, text me the address.”

  “No hurry. In fact, it’s not far from your place so I’ll swing by and pick you up if you like?”

  “Erm… Okay.” She didn’t sound too sure.

  “Put the kettle on, I’ll be there soon.”

  I pulled into the housing estate twenty minutes later. I’d picked Layla up from there for the Christmas party last year, but I’d never been inside. This particular housing development was too rich for my blood. On a police salary there was no way I could afford to live here, but I didn’t know much about Max’s income or financial situation. All I knew was that he was co-owner of several local businesses in Liverpool and Manchester. I looked around again and couldn’t help but think there had been some dodgy dealings going on. “You’re a jealous bugger,” I said to myself.

  Layla opened the front door wide as I approached. “Sorry, Dylan, I’m running late. I don’t know what’s keeping Mum. I’ve called her about six times already.”

  “Really? Is that normal? Do you want me to shoot over to her house for you?”

  “No, it should be okay. Come in and have a coffee, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. She’s usually early if anything.”

  As I stepped inside, a teenaged boy dressed in black trousers and white shirt appeared. He had a school tie hung loosely around his neck and dragged a grey blazer along the floor behind him. He turned and sneered at me. “What do you want?”

  Taken aback, I looked at Layla who turned scarlet and glowered at the brat.

  “Jacob! Carry on like this and you’re grounded. Now hurry up and sod off to school, you’ll have to get the bus.” She shook her head at me as though she was at the end of her tether.

  Jacob shoved past me and up the stairs, the sneer still firmly in place.

  “Bad time?” I said once he was out of view.

  “Is there any other? Seems to be getting worse instead of better.” She led me into the kitchen.

  Another boy, who looked identical to the first got up from the table and placed a cereal bowl in the sink.

  “Joshua, meet Dylan, my boss.”

  “Hi, Dylan.” Joshua smiled, extending his hand for me to shake.

  I vaguely remembered Bella telling me Layla had twins, however, apart from the facial features, these boys couldn’t be more different. “Pleased to meet you, Joshua.” I shook his hand firmly.

  He kissed his mother’s cheek, picked up a schoolbag from the back of the chair and headed for the front door. “See you later,” he called.

  Layla placed the filled kettle on the stand and wiped her hands on a tea-towel. “Aren’t you waiting for Jacob?” she called after him.

  “He won’t get on the bus with me. He has his own friends.”

  “How about Kyle?”

  “He’s gone already. Charmaine called for him when you were in the shower.”

  Layla exhaled loudly and shook her head as she followed him out. I felt sorry for her.

  Finding a couple of mugs on the draining board, I set about making two cups of coffee.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Layla said, once she reappeared. “We can get going now, if you like?”

  “No hurry. And besides, you look frazzled. Did you even get any sleep last night?”

  “A bit. I wouldn’t mind but I could barely keep my eyes open all evening but as soon as I hit the sack, I was wide awake.”

  “Stay on the sofa then. That’s what I do. At least you might get a few hours shut-eye that way.” I handed her a steaming mug.

  “I might try that tonight. Can’t hurt, I guess.”

  We sat opposite each other at the dining table.

  The sound of someone charging down the stairs startled me, and Jacob arrived again in the hallway. He grabbed his bag and stormed out the door.

  Layla sighed. “He’s a worry, that lad.”

  “Seems a handful. Won’t his dad step in and help?”

  She snorted. “You must be joking—he’s a waste of space.”

  “He’s still their dad and he has a responsibility to help out. I wouldn’t give him a choice if I was you—the cheeky bastard.”

  A few minutes later, the front door suddenly opened, and a classy looking woman entered. “I’m sorry, love. I can’t believe it, but I slept in. Where are the boys?”

  “They’ve already left. They’re old enough to get the bus now anyway, but I was just worried about you, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry about me, chick.” She turned to me and raised one of her eyebrows. “Oh, hello. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Pixie.”

  “Dylan,” I said, taking her offered hand in mine.

  Layla scowled and jumped to her feet. “We’ve got to get to work, Mother. I’ll speak to you later.”

  “Oh, really?” Pixie frowned. “Can’t you spare a few minutes?”

  “No. I’ll see you later.” Layla kissed her mother’s cheek and headed for the door.

  “Nice to meet you, Pixie,” I said, before following Layla.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, once we were in the car.

  “About what?”

  “My mother. She’s a right nympho lately.”

  I braked hard and barked out a laugh. “A nympho?” I asked, sure she’d got her words mixed up.

  “Yes. Since she joined a dating agency, she’s bloody sex mad—she has a different guy every night!”

  “You’re kidding!” I spluttered.

  “Honest, I’m not. She’s embarrassing.”

  “I think it’s a hoot. She’s an attractive woman, and she’s obviously enjoying herself. Good on her.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if it was your mum.”

  I laughed again as I thought about my own lovely mother—obsessed with bingo and crosswords, she wouldn’t look twice at a man since my dad passed away twelve months ago.

  “So, where are we going?” Layla dusted off her trouser suit and inhaled deeply as though leaving her problems at home.

  “Will called the last registered owner of the van and he’d scrapped it, apparently. The scrap yard is here in town.”

  “Ooh! Let’s hope for a solid lead.”

  Ten minutes later I parked on the road beside a huge auto recycling sign. We strolled into the vast yard and located the reception.

  A scruffy-haired young lad grunted some form of greeting at us as we entered, then went back to staring at the computer screen. I was certain he was doing nothing more important than checking his Facebook page.

  “Is the manager about, please?” I asked, flashing my badge.

  That got him up on his feet. “Nah! He won’t be here till later. Can I help?”

  “We’re trying to locate a Transit van that was sold to you as scrap several months ago.”

  He was suddenly devoid of all colour.

  I glanced at Layla to see if she noticed his body language. Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded.

  The lad cleared his throat and bounced on the balls of his feet. “What van?”

  I gave him the number plate details. “And here’s a copy of the receipt. Do you recognise that signature?”

  “No. This isn’t one of our receipts. We always print ours on letterheaded paper.” His shifty expression and fidgety fingers told me he was lying. But why?

  I took a chance. “Funny, because you match the description of the person who bought the van, to a tee,” I lied.

  The guy stiffened and eyeballed the door. I sensed he was considering making a run for it.

  “Just tell us who you sold it to.”

  “Aw, man! I’m gonna be in deep shit.” He began to blubber.

  “Why? Tell us what happened.”

  “Some guy brought it in one Sa
turday morning, I was here alone. There was fuck-all wrong with it, so I made up a fake receipt and bought it myself. It had no tax or MOT, but only had minor damage—I knew I could make a killing.”

  “So, you sold it?”

  He nodded, his face crumpled in a seriously ugly cry.

  “Who to?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t do any paperwork. The guy said he was a traveller and wanted something he could convert to sleep in. He paid cash and drove it away the same day.”

  I looked at the receipt. “So, eight months ago—would you have CCTV footage from back then?”

  “I don’t think so, man. It’s not a very up-to-date system.”

  “Tell me about the buyer. What did he look like?”

  “Late fifties, early sixties. He had an accent and wore a leather jacket and an old-fashioned hat. He was a gypsy, a traveller—he said he intended to do it up to sleep in. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Please don’t tell my boss—he’ll sack me.”

  “Sorry, buddy, but you’ve broken the law—getting the sack is the least of your problems right now. What’s your name and address?”

  Eight

  Will took a deep breath, descended the steps, and walked into the unknown.

  He’d never been inside a gay bar before, especially one as renowned as Dorothy’s.

  He was surprised the subterranean bar was as big as it was.

  He felt the eyes of strangers boring into him.

  Why the hell did I volunteer myself for this? He thought.

  Walking to the bar, a young guy approached.

  “Can I help yer?” He had a broad Mancunian accent.

  Will held up his credentials. “DS Will Spencer to see Chris Turner.”

  The barman’s eyes lit up. “Are you here about the murders then?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Could you please let Mr Turner know I’m here?”

  “Sure thing, handsome.”

  He minced away to the other end of the bar.

  Will shuddered and scanned the room, trying to ascertain where the CCTV cameras would be located and only spotted two. Something told him he wouldn’t find what he needed on the footage.

  Turning back to the bar, he caught the eye of a weedy, older looking camp guy with the complexion of an Oompa Loompa.

  “Ooh, look, girl,” the man squealed to his equally effeminate, orange tinted companion. “Fresh meat.”

  Will’s face flushed, embarrassed by the unwanted attention.

  He glowered his disapproval and was met with the fluttering of eyelashes.

  The man blew him a kiss.

  The attention shouldn’t have surprised him. He wasn’t a bad looking guy–shaved head, stubble, rugby player build, thighs like tree trunks. He was a catch but didn’t have a gay bone in his body.

  A man seemingly in his fifties walked toward him on the customer side of the bar and offered a smile. The first thing Will noticed were the spectacles on a chain around his neck. It put him in mind of the old comedian, Larry Grayson.

  “DS Spencer.”

  “Yeah,” Will muttered. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Chris Turner.”

  Will held out his credentials. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr Turner. I do appreciate it.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure, ducky, but call me Blanche, all my friends do.”

  Ducky. What the fuck? “Erm, okay,” he replied, still unsure of what to call him. “Do you have the footage ready for me to view?”

  “Yes, all ready. If you’d like to follow me to my office.” He led the way. “Can I get you a drink, or maybe a bite to eat?”

  “Just a lemonade.”

  Chris turned to the barman. “Mayday, love, bring a lemonade and a strong black coffee through to my office as soon as you can, please.”

  “Gimme a few minutes, Blanche.”

  “Mayday?”

  “Yes, ducky–don’t ask. Now, where were we? Oh yes, I’m afraid we only have footage from two of the cameras.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The stage area and the bar near the main entrance.”

  “Main entrance?”

  “Yes. There is a side entrance too. Not many punters use it, but it’s always open.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’ve put in a request for all the cameras to be fixed.”

  “Okay. Nothing we can do about it now, but if you don’t mind, I’ll need your help.”

  The office was dingy and cluttered. It wouldn’t have surprised Will if it had been converted from a broom cupboard. An old-fashioned video recorder sat on top of a TV screen–hardly state-of-the-art.

  Chris gestured to the nearest chair. “You sit there and do what you need to do.”

  “Thanks, but before I look through the footage, I need to show you a couple of pictures of the victims and see if you recognise either of them.”

  “It’s nothing gory is it, ducky? I don’t have the stomach for that.”

  “No, not at all. Just photos for identification purposes.”

  Will opened his file and retrieved the two photographs, placing them on the desk in front of Chris.

  “Those poor girls.”

  “Do you recognise either of them?” Will asked.

  “I’m sorry to say I do.”

  Will picked up one of the photos. “Can you tell me who this is?”

  “Her name is Gina Elliot. She was a regular in here. Lovely girl. I can’t believe somebody would hurt her.” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

  Will picked up the other image. “And this person? Is she familiar to you at all?”

  “Yes, she was all over the news a few weeks ago. And I told the other officer I recognised her.”

  “Was Jade Kelly a regular too?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t come as often as Gina.”

  Will put the photos away. “Thanks.”

  “I hope you catch the bastard and string him up by his balls.”

  “So do I. And the sooner the better.”

  “You think there will be more murders?” Chris shuddered.

  “I’d bet my life on it. This is one sick bastard and unless we catch him, and fast, he’ll strike again.”

  Chris gulped.

  Mayday brought the drinks in and set them down.

  “Thank you,” Will said.

  “Gimme a shout if you need filling up,” Mayday said with a wink.

  Will nodded then guzzled the lemonade back.

  For nearly an hour they trawled through the footage.

  “That’s Gina, right there,” Chris said, fingering the screen.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. I remember clearly, she told me she’d only bought the dress that day.” He waved his hand regally.

  “Great. Do you know who she’s with?”

  “I don’t know them well, but it’s usually the same old crowd. Trannies tend to stick together.”

  “So, it’s well known they’re all transgender?”

  “Oh, yeah, ducky. Nobody cares in here. Anything goes, you know.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Gina was pretty well known anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, she loved to get up and do karaoke in between the drag acts.”

  “On the night in question, did she get up on stage?”

  “Oh, yes, without a doubt.”

  They trawled through more footage, and sure enough, Gina took to the stage. He couldn’t hear what she was singing as there was no audio, but she was there.

  She sang a couple of songs, took a bow, and left the stage. They flicked through the remaining film, but Gina wasn’t seen again.

  He would need the CCTV footage from the streets, both entrances, hopefully we’ll be able to see who she left the bar with.

  The footage had been recorded on an old VHS tape, but in this instance that came in handy.

  “Do you mind if I take this with
me? I’ll make sure to return it to you in due course.”

  “Ducky, if it gets this monster off the street, you keep it.”

  “Well, thank you for your help this morning. If you hear of anything else, please call me?” Will handed over his card.

  “Of course.” Chris ejected the video cassette from the machine.

  “Thanks, err, Blanche.”

  “Get that animal off the streets, DS Spencer. These girls have been through enough.”

  “I promise we’ll catch him.” He picked up the tape and exited the office.

  “Those stairs there.” Chris pointed towards the pool table. “That’s the other entrance. Feel free to go out that way.”

  “Got you.”

  Will walked up the stairs and made a note of the street name. He called the office, requesting the CCTV footage be sent to him urgently.

  Later that afternoon, Will finished looking through the footage he’d requested.

  “Damn.” He banged his hand on the desk.

  “Problem?” Dylan approached.

  Layla turned in her chair.

  “A fucking big one. I just checked the CCTV from both entrances at Dorothy’s…”

  “And?”

  “She left via the side exit–alone.”

  “Did anybody follow her?” Layla asked.

  “Not that I can see, but I’m waiting for more footage so I can track the route she took from the bar and hopefully see if we can ascertain where she met her attacker.”

  “Good thinking.” Dylan said. “Keep me informed.

  “Oh, boss, before you head off. I meant to tell you I got a hit on those prosthetics.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nah, I struck lucky earlier. Apparently, there’s a place not far from Lime Street Station–pretty seedy by all accounts but they stock this particular line.”

  “Did you speak to anybody there?”

  “Just a brief call with the shop assistant but he didn’t know too much or wasn’t giving anything away. He said the store manager…” He looked at his notes. “… a Damien Robinson, would be back around 4pm so I said I’d head over and speak to him in person.”

  “Sounds like a good start, but if you don’t mind, you focus on the footage and I’ll ask one of the others to head over.”