by Ricki Thomas
Mary was still beaming. She did a little skip and trotted out of the room, pleased that her idea had gone down so well. “Mary.” Krein called after her, she peeped around the door. “Has the paper come yet?”
“I’ll just get it.”
Krein had eaten most of his breakfast by the time Mary returned with the newspaper. She carelessly dropped it on the covers, and Krein’s face paled as he read the bold headline.
“Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He threw the unfinished meal onto the tray, and snatched the paper up. “Fuck! I’m going to be crucified.” Krein dropped the paper and sprang out of bed, tugging his jeans on in the same movement.
Linda’s hopes of a romantic anniversary plummeted as she read the words that grieved her husband so dramatically. ‘NO BODY YET, BUT FOETUS FOUND’. She sighed. Twenty-five years of this, and it never got any better. She watched her husband race from the room, and presently listened to his car engine fire up.
It was nearly four weeks since Annabel had gone missing. Greg had been to hell and was slowly clawing his way out of the vicious pit he’d fallen into. He’d even been to the barbers to have his hair neatened and beard trimmed the previous day. Gail had been delighted, it had meant he was slowly coming to terms with the terrible tragedy they were part of. Obviously, as a mother, she was deeply upset at Annabel’s disappearance, but one of them had had to remain stable for the children, and Greg had completely fallen apart, so that left her to be the strong one.
Until today. The headlines glared at her, and, unable to even faint in shock, she had no choice but to comply with the compulsion to read the article. Tears, hot, furious, tumbled down her cheeks, flowing uncontrollably over their redness. Annabel’s baby, reported on so mercilessly. Her grandchild, a mere sensation for Sunday reading.
She’d trusted DI Krein, on the surface he had seemed to keep them fully informed of all the developments in the investigation, but he must have known about this, and this was one snippet she’d have preferred to hear in person. Anger burned as she recalled Krein telling them about the press conference. But when she and Greg had subsequently read the details in the newspapers, seen the photofit of the bearded suspect, read with horror about Katie Joyce’s death, they’d been prepared. To find out that Annabel had been savaged so monstrously, and like this. Gail couldn’t hold it in, it was uncontrollable. The scream resonated throughout the house.
Greg thundered down the stairs, bursting through the door. “Gail? What’s up?” He tried to grasp her shoulder for comfort, but she angrily shoved the paper into his hand before he made contact. She could feel his confusion bubbling into anger.
The doorbell sounded, and Gail automatically rose to answer the door, dabbing at her tearstained face. Unlocking the latch, she was suddenly overwhelmed by flashes and urgent voices. She tried to push the door closed as the cameras sparked and the microphones were thrust in her face, but a foot held it open. The questions rang in her head.
“Are you Annabel’s mother?”
“Did you know about the foetus?”
“What are your comments?”
“Are they hiding her body from the public as well?”
Faintness washed over her body, her head reeled, her heart raced. Her breathing quick and shallow, Gail squeezed her hands over her ears, eyes tightly shut, desperate to stop the noise, the horror. As her knees buckled and her body dropped to the floor, Greg rushed forward, kicked the foot holding the door ajar, and slammed it. “Piss off, the lot of you, you fucking vultures.” He screamed, scooping his mother-in-law’s body in his arms.
Three pairs of young eyes watched the scene from the top of the stairs, terrified, oblivious, and blissfully naïve.
Krein trudged along the corridor towards MacReavie’s office, his colleagues averting their eyes, uncomfortable. The headlines, and the ensuing calls from a furious Gregor Keeley, were the talk of the station. Opening the door, Krein was surprised to see Detective Superintendent Walker. The two men glared at him, their anger palpable.
“Sir, Guv.” Krein desperately tried to sound more confident than he felt.
MacReavie shook his head slowly, he turned and stared blankly though the window. Walker’s cheek was twitching, an uncontrollable tic caused by anger. His outburst was sudden. “What the fuck did you think you were playing at, Krein?” Krein knew better than to answer, he hung his head. Walker stepped close, Krein could feel his breath. “I’ve had Mr Keeley on the telephone three times this morning, twice in tears, demanding to know why he wasn’t told about the foetus.”
Weeks of pent-up emotions exploded, Krein found himself shouting. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to him, damn it! By the way, not only has your wife probably been murdered, but your unborn child was found ripped from the womb and thrown into the bushes! Gregor Keeley was already losing it, that information would have taken him over the edge.”
“You’re a fucking detective, Krein, not a bloody social worker. If you didn’t feel able to tell the family the whole truth, you should have informed MacReavie, let him do it.”
MacReavie shuddered, pleased Krein hadn’t mentioned it, but he wasn’t about to tell Walker that.
Krein knew his job wasn’t on the line over the foetus, but it may be soon if he didn’t control himself. But he couldn’t. He jumped in, double-barrelled, his voice resounded through the building. “Let’s get this straight, shall we? If you bastards weren’t so fucking money conscious all the time, we may even have caught the killer by now. You fart around, not wanting to spend the money testing Annabel’s friends’ DNA, so we’ve got roughly fifty samples taken from her car, and we don’t know who they belong to. I’ve been pissing up a fucking tree for the last month, with pretty much no help or expenditure from my seniors, unless it involves the glory of standing in front of a press conference,” Krein shot a look at MacReavie, his eyes challenging, “all your bloody distraught words to the press, then you go off for your important game of golf.”
MacReavie glared at him, furious. He strode up to Krein, grabbing his collar and thrusting his gritted teeth threateningly close. “You will never, ever talk to me, or my superiors, in this way again. Do you understand?” The hollering was followed by the stench of stale garlic.
Unperturbed, Krein glared back, his frustrated anger overwhelming. He lowered his voice and stated, clearly, slowly, exaggerating each word. “Your breath stinks.” Krein turned, and strode purposefully out of the office, leaving the two remaining men to glance uncomfortably at each other, dumbfounded.
Krein drove straight to Caisten, he had to see the family, he needed to explain his reasons for withholding the sickening details. He had built up such a respect and attachment to them, he could only hope they could understand he was trying to protect them.
“Oh you’re lovely, you are.” Eduardo Delfini gently stroked Paul’s cheek. He took his hand and ran his index finger along each of Paul’s long fingers, one by one. “Such lovely, elegant fingers, you must be a musician, you must be gifted. Do you play an instrument?”
Paul shook his head and smiled modestly.
“When you come to my house, Pauly?” Delfini was desperate to get this gorgeous young lad into bed. “I want you so, you know I do. I think you tease me for no result.”
Paul stood up and smiled again. “I’m no tease, Ed, believe me. I will, but when the time is right. You’re special to me, and I want the first time to be special. We’ve known each other four days, I want to know you at least fourteen.”
Delfini shook his head and waved his arms in mock disgust. “Ten days is too long for me to wait for you.”
Paul laughed and took the glasses from the table, stacking them high in his crooked arm. “You’ll wait.” He crossed the smoky room and deposited the empties on the bar. The music was deafening, and the strobe lights that flickered occasionally tired his eyes. Heading away to clear more tables, a strong hand wrenched him back.
Jack Weston was not a homosexual himself, no, he liked ba
bes, buxom blonde babes, preferably with no brain and a healthy interest in sadomasochism. But he was an entrepreneur, he knew a profitable business when he saw one, and buying this gay bar eleven years before had made him an affluent man. He no longer had to buy his girls on the side, they threw themselves at him. Marlene, his second wife, and mother of his two growing sons, wasn’t concerned about his extra-curricular activities as long as he kept the big money coming in. He had a couple of sidelines, not strictly straight and narrow, but on the surface he was a respectable business owner.
“You gonna go with that Iti or not?” Jack nodded in Delfini’s direction.
“One day.” Paul shrugged.
“You better do it quick, and you better give me my cut, or you’ll be skkk” Jack ran his finger sharply across his neck.
Paul sneered at Jack, unconcerned, he shrugged again. “I’ll shag the ugly slime ball when I’m ready, and not before, so get off my case.” He sauntered away from the bar.
Jack watched him go with interest. Most of the rent boys who came to work for him were younger, and they stayed firmly in their place, never a smart word back to him, they wouldn’t dare. Usually Jack would have been furious, but there was something about this Paul, he was intriguing. Something told Jack that Paul would be an excellent ally to have, and he didn’t want to do anything to disrupt that. Paul had the killer instinct, it was clear in his eyes.
Linda turned the oven off. Inside, the lovingly prepared celebratory feast was overcooked, dry and spoiled. She lifted the champagne from the cooler and replaced it in the fridge, then cleared the candles, tablecloth, flowers and crockery from the table.
She checked her watch for the hundredth time that night. It was eleven o’clock. She sighed, deflated, and poured a large whiskey from the Waterford Crystal decanter they’d received as a late wedding present from her parents. Knocking it back, she poured a larger one, carrying it miserably up the stairs. Sitting, forlorn, on the side of the bed, stroking the fresh covers nonchalantly, Linda realised her silver anniversary had fallen as flat as their wedding had quarter of a century before. She downed the drink, shuddering as it hit the back of her throat, and climbed under the covers. She was lonely, yes, but she’d lost the ability to cry years before.
Tuesday 17th June
“I need a gun and some ammo.” Paul stared, unblinking, at his boss.
Jack Weston was rarely ever flustered, but he verged on the edge now, not that his eyes would ever admit that to Paul. “When?”
“Today. I need it before I leave work this evening.”
Jack shook his head slowly, buying himself time, and slammed his fist on the desk. He knew he could acquire a gun, that wasn’t a problem, but he was curious. This was his territory, and if there were any shootings, he wanted to know about it. However, he knew better than to ask Paul directly. He would have to send out some feelers, and quick. “I’ll get you a gun, but it’ll cost you.”
“I’ve got five hundred.” Paul’s demeanour was calm.
Jack waved his hand, dismissive. “I’ll need a grand at least.”
“I’ve got five hundred.” Something in Paul’s icy eyes, in his muted voice, Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt uncomfortable. Unable to hold his stare, he looked away, walking around the desk, and stood in front of Paul. His bravado was false, but he only admitted his fear to himself. He thrust his face at Paul’s threateningly, and growled in a menacing tone. “Five hundred. But you owe me.” Pulling back, he had the afterthought. “What do you need it for?”
The vacant glare silenced him, Paul turned and walked out.
PC Bray sat beside the graffiti covered desk in the interview room, Mr Jennings and Miss Ball were opposite him. “So,” he started, warmly, “you say you want to report a burglary.”
Lisa glanced at her boyfriend, her manner awkward, and Bray found her innocence attractive. She was young, twenty-one maybe, and she was unusually pretty, her eyes wholesome, her long hair beaded. “Shall I say?” Her fiancé nodded, whilst hushing the two toddlers that were playing noisily behind them. Lisa returned her focus to Bray. “It’ll probably seem silly to you, we never thought about it really. It’s just someone smashed our window a couple of weeks ago. I was at work, I work at The Cunningham Arms on Sundays, and Jay took the kids to his mum’s.”
Bray could feel the boredom arising. “Go on.”
Jay finished concisely. “I think he nicked my trousers.” If it wasn’t for the screaming children, the room would have been silent.
Lisa shifted, uncomfortable, she glanced at Jay, turned to the kids and shouted. “Shut up or you’ll get a wallop.”
Incredulous, Bray raised his voice to be heard over the children, suppressing the urge to laugh. “What makes you think your trousers were taken?”
“It’s obvious! They aren’t in my wardrobe.” Jay shook his head, perplexed at the perceived idiocy of the question.
Lisa continued. “I washed them, this is silly, because I put them away, and Jay thought they were in the wash. He shouted at me yesterday because he said I was taking too long to wash them, and I said I already had. He said where were they then, and I said I bloody well didn’t know. He said I probably threw them away ‘cos I’m mean like that, and I said he probably left them in some tart’s bedroom.”
Bray needed to calm the situation a little. “When was the window smashed, what date was it?”
“It was a Sunday, I already told you, because I work at The Cunningham Arms on Sundays. I work Monday, Thursday and Friday too, but that’s when the kids are at nursery, so Jay doesn’t have them, so we know it was a Sunday because he had the kids at his mum’s house. It was a Sunday.”
Count to ten, slowly, Bray thought to himself. “How many Sundays ago, can you think of the date?” Why was he even persevering with this farce?
Lisa sniggered, embarrassed. “Oh, right, um, what’s the date today, er seventeenth, and today is a Tuesday, that would have been, um, one, two, two weeks last Sunday. I’m right, aren’t I, Jay?”
“Sounds about right to me, I think.” He scratched his head.
Bray checked his notebook. Sunday the first of June. He remembered that day clearly, and alarm bells rang in his head. “Mr Jennings, Jay, could you please tell me exactly what these trousers were like?”
MacReavie had summoned Krein to his office, who entered holding two steaming mugs. “Guv.” The argument nine days previously had not been mentioned since.
“We’ve had a call from Jackie Goodman in Halesworth. A young couple have reported that their house was broken into on the first of June, just outside Halesworth. Some mens clothes were taken.”
“It took them two weeks to report it!” Placing the coffee on the desk, Krein noticed his boss’s breath smelt minty.
“The couple had a misunderstanding, apparently. Anyway, the man had thought his window had been broken by kids, so he just boarded it up. Their forensics team have been unable to lift any prints from the frame, unfortunately. They’ve dusted the furniture and looked for fibres as well, but two and a half weeks is a long time, nothing’s been found.”
“So we’re assuming the killer’s been in and changed his clothes?”
“I suppose so. Anyway, I’ll give you a copy of the statement that the couple made. You can add it to your case notes.”
Krein left the office, this investigation was increasingly frustrating. Katie Joyce’s mutilation was so similar to that of Rose Harsent’s that it had to be significant. But how?
He sat at his desk, filing the latest statement neatly, and deliberated over the facts they had. The Major Investigation Teams in both Kidlington and Dorset had done some research into past murders, but there appeared to be, from their findings, no precedent for the situation surrounding Annabel’s disappearance. Maybe the Rose Harsent: Katie Joyce similarity was a decoy, even a coincidence. Alan Benton’s accident was unlikely to have been planned, however similar the situation was to Lawrence of Arabia’s death. Krein supposed it
was possible that pregnancy was a link, after all, Annabel was pregnant, and Katie was made to appear so. Maybe this weirdo was obsessed with pregnancy?
Krein sipped his coffee, he knew the killer was one step ahead, and possibly, probably, the only way they would gain the distance on him would be if or when he committed another murder. Krein’s heart sank at the appalling thought.
“What do you mean you can’t find nothing on him?” Jack Weston was furious, and time was running out. It was half past eight and Paul was already working the tables.
“We went through his room, top to bottom, under the floor, everything, boss. If there was anything to be found, we would’a found it.” Dunny Thomas looked nervously at Jack, he’d seen his temper too many times, and he knew for sure he didn’t want it directed at him.
“What about that bag he brings every evening? Have you been through that?” Jack was pacing, his hand to his forehead.
Dunny glanced at Reno, exchanging a nervous glimpse. “Er, Reno here, said he would do it now.”
“So what you bloody waiting for, you should have checked it already.” His roar made both the boys jump.
Reno hurried from the room, Jack continued to pace until he returned a short time later, flourishing the holdall. Jack unzipped it, and gasped. “What the fuck?” Dragging out a long length of sturdy rope, he placed it on his desk, and followed it with some pieces of brick and stones in varying sizes, three pairs of boxer shorts, and two pairs of socks. Dunny and Reno’s curiosity brought them closer, Jack glared at them and they backed away. A can of diet cola was next. A pair of scissors, a pair of gloves, and a torch were removed and the bag was empty. “Where’s that little computer thing I’ve seen him playing with?”
