by Adam Croft
‘I’m a doctor. These pictures are no more shocking to me than a pair of handcuffs is to you.’
‘I think I’d still expect some sort of reaction,’ Wendy replied, narrowing her eyebrows.
‘Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed. Alexander Pope.’
‘You’re clearly a very wise man,’ Culverhouse said, exchanging a look with Wendy. ‘So perhaps you could start by telling us where you really were on those three nights.’
48
10th October
On the inside, Desmond Jordan was reeling. Externally, though, he had to keep a calm head and try not to let things spiral out of control. He knew that bitch across the road would be the one to fuck everything up for him. And now there was nothing he could do about it.
Fortunately, she didn’t know the reason why he’d been going out most nights and he’d pleaded with the police to make sure she didn’t find out. In exchange, he’d had to tell them absolutely everything.
He’d had to tell them that he’d been sleeping with the temp while his wife and kids were visiting family in Baltimore. He’d had to tell them that he’d go round to her place three or four nights a week, knowing that ears would prick up and tongues would wag if she ever came over to his. If word ever got back to the woman over the road, he knew damn well that Bess would find out and that’d be his marriage over. His wife was a pretty forgiving woman, but even she had her limits.
It was never something that he’d intended to happen. But then that’s what they all said, wasn’t it? It just kind of happened. Yes, it had probably been his idea for Bess and the kids to take a break, but it wasn’t as though he was just shipping them off to get them out of the way. Jack and Lyra had done particularly well in their last assessments, so he figured they could do with a break.
Homeschooling the kids hadn’t been as straightforward as Bess had made it sound. She’d been homeschooled herself back in the US, but found it difficult to cope with doing it herself in the UK. As a result, they’d hired an au pair with experience in homeschooling who’d teach the kids while Desmond and Bess were out at work. As far as Desmond was concerned, this completely defeated the object as the idea was that by being homeschooled the kids would see far more of their parents. In his opinion, they could’ve just been sent to the local school and he could’ve saved a packet on what he was paying the au pair. But no, Bess was insistent. Her first few years of school in the US had been hell for her, with the bullying getting so bad that her parents had pulled her out and homeschooled her. She didn’t want the same for her kids, she said.
Bess wasn’t the sort of woman who always got what she wanted, but if she felt particularly strongly about something she was like a dog with a bone. That was one of the things which had first attracted him to her. That strong temperament and independent will was something he really admired, but sometimes even he needed a break.
He’d done his best to minimise his worries in life. Having a plan always helped, he found. He’d always been clear and methodical in his ways — that was one of things that got him through med school — but he really hadn’t planned for the whole sleeping-with-the-temp thing. Fortunately for him, that had been his biggest and only real worry in life up until now. He could be quite a highly strung person when under stress, which was why he stuck rigorously to his life plan.
Within five years the mortgage would be paid off. Then he’d look to sell the practice and he and Bess could both retire. The kids would be ready to go into the world of work — or, more likely, university — and he and his wife would be free to do whatever they wanted. If Bess got her way, it’d probably involve a move back to the US, but Desmond wasn’t keen. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t something she brought up often so there was a chance he might be able to avoid a showdown over it.
He’d been bailed over the incident in the pub, ‘pending further enquiries’. He wasn’t sure what other enquiries they could possibly make, and he hoped that they were trying to avoid having to charge him. He’d inform the General Medical Council of his arrest anyway. He knew from speaking to other doctors who’d had incidents in the past that the GMC’s biggest bugbear was when members didn’t tell them something had happened. If he told them, there was a decent chance he might be able to continue practising. If he didn’t tell them and they found out another way — which they always did — he would have no chance.
Could he deal with that? Financially, probably. He could sell the practice and pay off his mortgage. The money he’d have left over would probably allow him to make do. If not, he could take a part-time job somewhere to make ends meet. That wasn’t his main worry. It would be the indignity of it all. He’d worked so hard to get where he was, despite his difficult beginnings, and he wasn’t about to let a lifetime’s hard work go to waste.
49
15th October
Helen took a large gulp of her chilled white wine and finally put pen to paper. She’d rehearsed almost every word, over and over in her head ever since she’d left Jack. Left him again.
No, she mustn’t think that. She didn’t leave him; he forced her away. Forced her again.
She knew she needed to keep a level head. She’d learnt plenty of coping strategies, which were fine for the usual daily stresses and trivialities of life, but how was anybody in their right mind meant to cope with this, let alone their wrong mind?
She couldn’t risk letting her feelings run away with her, but this letter needed writing. She had to tell him what was what. Calm, unemotional, matter of fact.
Dear Jack,
I’m writing to tell you that I’ve left the country again. I thought things might have changed, but evidently they haven’t.
I’m sorry things didn’t work out and that we couldn’t find our peace. I tried. I really did. But we’re obviously two different people. We’re poisonous together. When I left the last time I eventually managed to find my peace. I found myself. I discovered all that was wrong and I managed to find a way through it. I realised who I really was.
I thought I could use that to come back and patch things up, but coming back just opened up old wounds and reminded me of the person I used to be — the life I want to forget.
You’ll note this letter is postmarked from Paris. Don’t read anything into that. Call it a brief stopover. I won’t be getting in touch again any time soon, but I will pass your message on to Emily. I promise. She deserves to know the truth, no matter how unpalatable it is. And as you rightly say, she has a right to see you — if she wants to. She certainly hasn’t been keen up to now.
I hope all is well with work and life and that you can find your own peace in time.
Helen.
50
20th October
The information the team had amassed by now was extraordinary. They’d been tasked with uncovering every detail about each of the four women’s lives, as well as building up profiles of every doctor and surgeon in Mildenheath. They’d built up a database of Polish people of interest and started to look at links between the lives of the women, including their medical histories, social lives and any local pub or businesses they frequented.
Mildenheath being a town of barely 35,000 people, there were, of course, a fair few crossovers. What really stood out, though, was a piece of information uncovered by DC Debbie Weston, who’d spent the last couple of days phoning every hairdresser in the town, amongst other things. Mildenheath had a fair few hairdressers’ shops, but that was nothing compared to the number of mobile hairdressers listed in the Yellow Pages. It hadn’t taken her long before she’d got a hit.
‘I spoke to Terri Kinsella, the owner of Terri’s, a shop on Eastfield Road,’ Debbie said. ‘I didn’t believe it at first, but apparently all four women went there to get their hair cut.’
‘Blimey,’ Culverhouse replied, finally having found something to jolt his mind away from thinking of the letter he’d received from Helen. He had been expecting something of the kind, but it still rankled.
He knew, though, that he had bigger fish to fry. As much as he desperately wanted to see Emily again, he’d waited years already and a few more days or weeks wouldn’t hurt. He felt guilty for putting the job first again, but reconciled that with the assertion that he was trying to save someone’s life.
‘When did they all last have an appointment?’ he asked, getting his mind back on the task in hand.
‘That’s the weird thing. Marla Collingwood used to go about once every three weeks. She was quite fussy about her hair, apparently. But then Emma Roche and Keira Quinn only went every now and again. Lindsay Stott was a bit more regular with her appointments, but even she hadn’t been in for a while. It’s a very popular shop, though. It’s huge, and their prices are really good.’
‘Great, I’ll remember that next time I need a short back and sides,’ Culverhouse said. ‘So this whole idea of the silent confidant might not be so strange after all.’
‘Exactly. And get this. I asked the owner if the women went to see a particular hairdresser. They all went to see the same person.’
The officers in the incident room were deadly silent, waiting for Debbie to provide them with the name of their new prime suspect.
‘Fucking spit it out, will you?’ Culverhouse barked.
‘It was Queenie Kinsella. Her mother.’
‘F... What?’ the DCI replied.
‘I know. She’s eighty-three, apparently, but people specifically request her to do it because she’s so good. People see her like a mother figure.’
‘Well, she is. She’s Terri’s mother, for a start,’ Frank Vine proffered helpfully.
Culverhouse stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Are we all missing the fucking point here? The woman’s eighty-three! How do you think she managed to kill four fit young women? Not to mention putting on a man’s voice in the phone box that night. I mean, I’m sure she’s a brilliant hairdresser but she’s not a fucking shapeshifter.’
‘Yeah, it is a bit weird, I know, but it’s the only lead we’ve got. You have to admit, with everything else being totally unconnected, it’s odd that they all went to the same hairdresser, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Debbie, it’s odd,’ Culverhouse said. ‘But so are BDSM, sadomasochism and morris dancing. Just because it’s odd doesn’t make it suspicious. Apart from morris dancing, that is.’
‘I can get down there and speak to her if you like, guv,’ Wendy asked. ‘I can’t go for an hour or two, but I don’t think they’d be open yet anyway, would they?’
‘I’ve got her home address,’ Debbie said. ‘I didn’t think it would be a good idea to be sending police round to the shop. Apparently she only works mornings, so she’ll be home by one-thirty.’
‘Okay, I’ll pop over at some point this afternoon,’ Wendy replied.
‘Want me to go, guv?’ Luke Baxter said, jumping in. ‘I can probably pop over and meet her after she finishes at the shop. Get on top of things as quickly as possible. No time to lose and all that,’ he added, looking pointedly at Wendy.
‘I’m quite capable of doing it myself, thanks, Luke.’
‘Actually,’ Culverhouse said, diffusing the growing atmosphere, ‘why don’t you both go along? It might do you good to work together for once instead of constantly trying to wind each other up.’
Wendy looked at Luke and tightened her jaw. This wasn’t going to be her idea of fun.
51
20th October
It took a solid thirty seconds of Wendy standing with her finger pressed on the doorbell for Queenie Kinsella to hear it. Once the noise of the vacuum cleaner had finally wound down and she’d trotted over to the door and opened it, Wendy was already wishing she could leave.
‘Queenie Kinsella? I’m Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight and this is—’
‘Detective Sergeant Luke Baxter,’ he added, interrupting.
‘Ah yes, Terri spoke to your friend on the phone earlier. Do come in, won’t you? I’m sorry if I didn’t hear the bell at first,’ she said, continuing to talk as she waddled through into the kitchen. ‘It’s this blasted hoover. Can’t hear a thing over it. Always having to run it round, too. Gets harder and harder to keep a house clean as you get older, see. I thought it’d be easier after my Alf went, but if anything the blasted place has got dirtier. He was always tracking muck through the house, leaving pistons and spark plugs and god knows what in the sink. Mucky bugger, he was.’
‘Must be very difficult,’ Wendy offered.
‘Oh, it’s alright. Wouldn’t have it any other way, I suppose. I’ve got my friends and family and I’ve still got my work. Rare to be able to do what I do at my age, but I’ve always loved it. I love the gossip and the chat, and meeting people. I think that’s what keeps you going. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Please,’ Wendy replied.
Luke, for once, agreed.
‘Not much left in the way of family, mind. There’s only Terri, who you know, and my son, Paul. He owns the shop next door to Terri’s. They pop in whenever they can, but they’re so busy with their work. You know what it’s like, being young people yourself. I suppose that’s why I still work at Terri’s place, in a way. Get to spend time with the both of them. Or at least be in the same place as them, anyway.’
‘Your work, Mrs Kinsella. You work mornings, is that right?’ Wendy asked, trying to steer the conversation.
‘That’s right, love, yes. I usually get there about ten o’clock. The shop opens at nine, but get there a bit later as I like to watch my morning telly. Plus I can only really do about three or so hours a day, so if I get there at nine I’d have to be gone by twelve and a lot of my customers can only make it on their lunch breaks, see. Busy old world.’
Even though Wendy was doing her best to direct the conversation, Luke Baxter’s backside had barely touched the kitchen chair before he’d jumped in and tried to take control.
‘Do you know your clients well?’ he asked.
‘Some of them, yes. We have a good old natter most of the time. I think a lot of them feel like they can talk to me, you know. An older person. The voice of experience, maybe,’ Queenie said, breaking off into a laugh which sounded more like a cackle.
I’m surprised they can get a word in edgeways, Wendy thought. Before she could say anything, Baxter had jumped in again.
‘Are these women customers of yours?’ he said, taking four photographs out of his inside jacket pocket and putting them down on the table, forcing Queenie to put down the sugar jar and trot over to take a look.
‘Ooh, yes. All of them. Nice girls. Troubled, but then isn’t everybody?’
‘Do you know their names?’ Wendy asked, getting in before Luke.
‘I know everyone’s name, love,’ Queenie replied. ‘You don’t do a job like mine in a town like this without knowing everyone. That drunk looking one is Lindsay. Lindsay Scott, I think. No, Stott. Yes, with a T. The one there is Keira Quinn. Nice Irish name. Always remember that. She doesn’t come in that often, though. Same with this one. Another Irish name, I think. Roche. Emma Roche.’ She chuckled as she picked up the final photograph. ‘Ah, yes. Marla Collingwood. She practically lives in the shop. One of our more regular customers. Lovely lady.’
‘Mrs Kinsella, I’m afraid Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott died a few weeks back,’ Wendy said.
‘Oh, I know that, love. I might be old, but I’m not senile. I seen the papers like everyone else.’
‘You just don’t seem too shocked, that’s all.’
‘What, after a month and a half? Sweetie, I’m eighty-four next month. I’ve seen my fair share of death. Takes a lot to faze me.’
‘Did you not find it a bit odd that two of your customers died within a few days of each other?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not especially, no. It happens. We have hundreds of customers. Probably more. Want a drop of brandy in your tea, love?’ she said, gesturing to Luke.
‘No thanks. I must ask you to keep this confidential for now, but Emma Roche and Marla Collingwood also died
recently.’
Wendy shot Luke an icy glare. This had not been discussed or authorised. Knowing Queenie Kinsella’s loose tongue, it was highly unlikely that what he’d just told her was going to stay within these four walls.
‘Oh. Well that is a terrible shame. And all so young. Tell me, were the other two murdered as well?’
Wendy tried to hold Luke’s eye contact as if to say Don’t commit to anything.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Luke replied.
‘Oh. Well your lot are going to be busy, then, aren’t you?’ Queenie replied. ‘By my reckoning, that makes it a serial killer. I seen some programmes on it.’
‘It does, yes,’ Luke said.
‘We’re not certain the deaths are connected yet,’ Wendy interjected. ‘We’re still investigating. But we’re looking for links. And as you know, all four women were customers of yours so we needed to speak to you to find out more about them and what might link them.’
‘Well, I don’t know, love,’ the old woman replied, sitting down and stirring her tea. ‘I mean, they were all nice girls. Troubled. Maybe something caught up with them.’
‘How do you mean?’ Wendy asked.
‘Well they all liked a drink, for starters. But who doesn’t?’ She cackled again. ‘They weren’t your typical office workers, if you see what I mean.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t,’ Baxter replied, pressing Queenie for more detail.
‘Let’s just say that I know at least two of them used to work as ladies of the night, so to speak. Not your usual grotty kind. Private work, I mean. That Marla used to drink a lot. Sometimes she would’ve been in the pub all morning before coming in. I don’t know where she got her money. She’d spend a fair packet in our shop, to be fair. I think she tried to paper over the cracks, if you see what I mean. And that Emma’d had trouble. Apparently her husband had been a bit of a wrong’un. They’d broken up and he’d buggered off back to Ireland, thank God.’
