by Ellis, Tim
Okay. She stood up and began feeling around. A sliver of light knifed under the door from the corridor, so she made her way over to it and tried the handle – the door opened. She peered through the crack into an empty corridor and closed it quickly.
Okay. It hurt to breathe. Why did it hurt to breathe? Because she wasn’t – she was holding her breath. Stop holding your breath stupid. She took in a gulp of air and began breathing normally.
Okay. Her heart thrashed about as she found the light switch and the lights came on. She waited, but nobody came. The room was a locker room, and through an archway were three showers. A shower – a warm shower – would have been heaven, especially as she was filthy and smelled of urine. Was she in the male or female shower room? She opened the door again and craned her neck to look at the sign – “Ladies Shower Room” – Thank God for that.
Okay. She began opening lockers. Some were empty, some had clothes hung on the pegs inside, and some contained white coats. A white coat! Yes, that was the answer – she needed to blend in, become one of them. Dare she? Moving into the shower room she turned on a shower – it soon ran warm. She couldn’t blend in looking and smelling like a tramp. What choice did she have?
Okay. Quickly, she stripped off her clothes and bundled them into an empty locker, found shampoo on top of a locker and soap in the shower room. The spray colours came out of her hair easily and mixed together with Romeo and Harley’s blood, her own urine, the layers of filth she’d picked up from the duct and swirled down the plughole.
Somebody entered the locker room.
Oh God! She was naked. She held her breath and tried to cover herself up.
‘Sorry,’ a woman called. ‘I forgot my asthma spray.’
A locker door opened and closed.
And then she was gone.
Okay. She quickly rinsed herself and turned the water off. Crap! No towel again. Where was Shrek when she needed him? There were towels hung on radiators in the locker room – she helped herself. Now to find some clothes that would fit her and hope the owner didn’t come in while she was stealing them – a skirt, blouse and flat shoes – still no panties and bra, but the clothes thief couldn’t have everything she supposed. God, she hadn’t worn a skirt since before the flood. Next, she brushed her hair back into a hardly-worth-mentioning pony tail, found some make-up and made herself look almost human, and . . . inside the bag was a mobile phone – no signal – crap, a bunch of keys and a hundred pounds in a purse. She finished her transformation off with a white coat and slipped the swag into the pockets.
Okay. She was ready for her grand entrance. Except . . . the white coat had a name badge on it with a picture – Nancy Goyette – a middle-aged black woman. After rummaging through the lockers again she found a badge belonging to a youngish-looking white woman – Vicki Looney. Yes, that about said it all. She was as crazy as a loon doing what she was doing all right. There was no resemblance between them, and if anyone looked too closely they’d raise the alarm for sure.
Okay. She checked everything was tidy and . . . a clipboard. Anybody who was anybody carried a clipboard. She found one on top of a locker with some blank sheets of paper attached to it. Now she was ready.
Okay. She took a deep breath and opened the door . . .
Chapter Seventeen
After lunch Stick and Xena headed back to the station.
‘Are we going to let the Chief know we’ve hit a brick wall?’
Xena turned to stare at him. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Well, sometimes you have to admit defeat. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes . . .’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘You already asked that.’
‘That’s because I want to know if you’re really crazy, or you’re just pretending. Do I look as though I’m beaten? Do I look as though I want to flush my career – and, I might add, yours as well – down the bog-hole? Do I look . . . ?’
‘You want me to say no to all those questions, don’t you?’
‘I want you to shut the hell up about defeat and throwing yourself on your sword. We’ve hit a minor obstacle is all. If we go squealing to the Chief like headless chickens every time we come up against a bump in the road we’ll be replaced by automatons. He’ll put me in charge of door opening, and you’ll be the mat everybody wipes their feet on as they walk in the station. Is that what you want?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘Good, because I’d also hate to have to break in a new partner. And I don’t want you getting the idea that I’ve suddenly taken a liking to you – I haven’t. You’re the worst partner in the whole history of worst partners. If there was a worst partner chart – you’d be number one. The truth is – I don’t like change.’
‘I know you like me really, Sarge.’
‘You are crazy. I say one thing and you hear something totally different. You want to see the psychiatrist about those voices inside your head. I understand they have pills that make you feel on top of the world. Why aren’t we moving?’
‘Looks like there’s been an accident.’
‘Stop guessing.’ Xena prodded his arm ‘Go and find out what’s happening.’
Stick clambered out of the car and wandered off. He was gone for about five minutes.
‘I didn’t say you could mince about with your head up your arse for an hour while I’m sitting here like Piffy on a rock bun. Well, what’s the hold-up?’
‘Gas leak.’ Stick pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be here for at least an hour.’
‘Put the siren and flashers on.’
‘It won’t help, there’s nowhere to go.’
Xena stared out of the passenger window, but there was no hard shoulder. ‘Turn the car round. Go a different way.’
‘There’s a crash barrier in the middle of the road, and we’re gridlocked anyway. There’s no way we can get out.’
She sighed. ‘Why the hell did you drive us into this? You should have checked the traffic news before we set off. It’s your fault we’re stuck here.’
‘Maybe we can use the time productively.’
Xena made a raspberry sound by blowing through her closed fist. ‘You’re not going to start selling your carvings to the other idiots stuck in this jam, are you?’
‘As I’ve said before, I only work on commission. No, I was thinking that we could go over the case to see if we’ve missed anything . . .’
‘Missed anything? If anyone’s missed anything – it’s you.’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘Well, you should make it clear what you mean instead of casting aspersions on hard-working people.’
Stick took his notebook out and began flipping through the pages. ‘Did someone check out the bag lady that brought in the hand?’
‘She’s a bag lady, everybody knows Dolly the bag lady. Somebody said she was your mother.’
‘Was a house-to-house done in the area of the fish and chip shop?’
‘Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to, blockhead? Leaflets were handed out – we’ve had no response. As usual, nobody saw or heard anything. And it was a shop-to-shop not a house-to-house.’
‘There are flats above the shops.’
‘Then it would have been a flat-to-flat.’
‘We’ve checked for CCTV?’
Xena put her seat back and closed her eyes. ‘Nothing.’
‘What about a press briefing?’
‘We haven’t had one because we don’t have a body.’
‘No, but we’ve got a picture and a missing person.’
‘Okay, that’s one avenue we can pursue – make a note.’
‘We could do a reconstruction on Friday evening.’
She opened one eye. ‘Of what, numpty?’
‘A hand wrapped in newspaper being put in the litter bin.’
‘You’re talking rubbish.’ She laughed and said, ‘Rubbish! Do you get it?
‘I take it back. You probably wouldn’t be any good at stand-up.’
> ‘What else have you got, doughball?’
‘We had no match on the fingerprints, nothing on the nails, the story about being on the top table is a total fabrication . . .’
‘Except . . . The woman knew there was a function on at the town hall on Saturday night. Who would know that?’
Stick rubbed his stubble. ‘I expect it was advertised at the town hall, so a lot of people would know.’
‘Maybe. Who else?’
‘We could ring Mr Roberts and ask him.’
‘Make a note. Ring him after we’ve finished. What else?’
‘How did she know Amy Foster’s number?’
‘Yes, that bothers me as well. Either it’s the right number, or it was written down wrong, but how wrong? Maybe the number is right and Amy Foster is connected to the case, but we can’t see the connection yet.’
‘We could do some background checks on Amy Foster.’
‘Add it. What else?’
‘We’ve still got the list of fifty-seven people who receive the Jewish Chronicle.’
‘Yes, we could run those names through the database and see what comes back, and probably ask Threadneedle for a couple of constables to visit each address with the picture of the woman. Add it to your list.’
Stick wrote it down.
‘Keep going. Now, this is what you call police work.’
‘Checking we’ve covered everything?’
Xena snorted. ‘Checking you’ve covered everything more like. What’s next?’
‘There’s the blood disorder.’
‘I have no idea what to do with that. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Next?’
‘I’ve still got to go back to the tattoo parlour to find out if the woman has any idea about the bits of tattoo.’
‘I’m not hopeful. Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Add it to the list.’
‘There’s the Hobart 6614-1 high-powered saw.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘I got the feeling there were too many places that might have them, but we could check it out I suppose – add it.’
‘I’ve made some notes.’
‘To Jennifer?’
‘About the case.’
‘That you’ll whisper in her lughole tonight?’
‘You seem to be obsessed with someone who doesn’t exist.’
‘I’m getting close, Stickamundo.’
‘You’re not even warm. I was thinking, what if it wasn’t murder?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘An accident.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the woman could have been cutting meat . . .’
‘With those lily-white hands and painted nails? Don’t talk drivel. It was murder. Why else would someone cut up a woman and dispose of the body parts?’
‘All we’ve got is a hand.’
‘There’ll be more, you wait and see. They just haven’t been found yet.’
‘She might still be alive. The Doc was only eighty-five percent sure the hand came from a dead person.’
Xena shook her head. ‘She’s dead all right.’
‘Well, that’s all I’ve got.’ Stick took his phone out, rang Mr Roberts and put it on speaker.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s DC Gilbert, Mr Roberts.’
‘Forgot something?’
‘Sergeant Blake and I are stuck in traffic. We were discussing the case and wondering who knew about your dinner?’
‘I’m assuming you don’t want me to say the guests?’
‘No. I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘Well, obviously the people connected to the members and their guests such as friends and relatives who they might have told.’
‘Okay.’
‘There were also some tweets and mentions on Facebook.’
‘Where did you get your booklet printed?’
‘McMaster Printing on the Belcon Industrial Estate. They also provided us with five copies of the seating plan.’
Stick wrote it down. ‘What about the people at the town hall?’
‘Yes. I deal mainly with Amber Horgan in the Town Clerk’s office. She adds all of our functions to the town hall’s calendar of events. You do know the room was booked over six months ago, don’t you?’
‘No, I didn’t know that, but I’m sure the murderer hasn’t been planning to kill the woman for that amount of time.’
‘I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘What about caterers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Security?’
‘Yes and no. One of our members runs a security company and provides us with two men on the night.’
Mr Roberts gave him the names and addresses of both companies.’
‘Anyone else you can think of?’ Stick asked.
‘No one springs to mind, but if they do I’ve got your number.’
‘Thanks for your help again, Mr Roberts.’
‘You’re welcome.’
The call ended.
‘Well, that passed half an hour,’ Xena said. ‘What should we play now?’
‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with N.’
‘Numpty.’
Stick laughed. ‘You’ve played this game before.’
***
‘Kowalski?’
‘We’re at the scene now.’ Parish said into his phone.
‘And?’
‘She’s dead, stabbed through the heart.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Young woman. She must have come in as the killer was making his escape. Stabbed in the throat, face smashed on a washbasin. A hell of a mess.’
‘Anybody see anything?’
‘No, but there’s CCTV to look at. Also, I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the killer must have followed someone to the refuge. It wasn’t me and Richards because we didn’t even know we were coming here this morning, so it must have been Jerry.’
‘I don’t really want to tell her that.’
‘Well, you might want to let her know that if Lorna Boyce had stayed in the refuge she’d still be alive now.’
‘Yeah, I’ve already mentioned that.’
‘I’ll let you know more when I have it.’
‘Thanks, Jed.’
The call ended.
‘It could have been a random killing,’ Richards said.
They were sitting at one of the tables in the main bar of the Cat and Mustard Pot. Constables were taking statements from the people who were in the pub at the time of the murders. Forensics were in the ladies toilet collecting evidence. Toadstone wasn’t with them.
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No.’
‘Then why say it?’
‘We should explore every option to make sure there are no miscarriages of justice.’
‘Only if there’s some doubt. There’s no doubt here. The murderer wants us to think it’s a random killing, which would be classified as an act of God, or . . . an accident. Remember, he’s tried to kill her already by arranging two accidents and failed both times. This is someone who wants to make it look like an accident. If we weren’t here he’d probably get away with it, but we have an idea what’s going on.’
‘We do?’
‘Under normal circumstances, detectives would be allocated to investigate these two murders. They’d be coming at the case cold and probably conclude that both women were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They wouldn’t know what we know. We spoke to one of the victims this morning, we know Lorna Boyce’s history, we know that someone has already tried to kill her twice by making it look like an accident. We’re ahead of the game.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Where are we going next?’
Richards rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do. We were already on the case.’
‘Ooh, Winton’s – the meat processing factory in Wo
odford Green?’
‘That’s correct. We have an idea that the killer is connected to her place of work in some way. Some of our work has already been done for us by Jerry and that hacker called Cookie – whoever she is. We know that four of the workers are being paid extra for something, and we also know that the directors have skeletons in their cupboards.’
‘Sir?’ It was Constable Kim Wise who had been tasked to examine the CCTV recording for around the time of the murder, which had been pinned down fairly accurately by the second victim’s boyfriend. ‘I’ve got something.’
All three of them went into the manager’s office where the CCTV equipment was situated.
Constable Wise took the computer recording off pause. ‘This is the camera outside the front door shortly after the murders. Normally, it records people coming in, but it obviously records the back of their heads as they’re leaving as well – except when they look round to see if someone’s following them.’
They watched as a tall thin man turned to look back at the door he’d just exited.
‘Good job, Constable,’ Parish said. ‘Have you shown this to Lorna Boyce’s two friends?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Richards, ask them to come in.’
She left to get the two women Lorna Boyce had come into the pub with – Susan Kemp and Millie Proudfoot.
‘Yes, that’s the bastard,’ Kemp said. ‘He was sitting on the veranda thing above us. We thought he was just giving Millie the glad-eye, but . . . God, I hate men.’
After they’d gone Parish said to Wise, ‘Print a couple of copies off so that we can take them with us, and make sure you get statements from those two women. Richards, ask someone from forensics to come in here and take charge of the DVD. We also want it on Crimestoppers asking for anyone who recognises him to give us a call.’
‘We’ve nearly solved the case,’ Richards said as they walked across the car park to the car.
‘Hardly. We haven’t got a clue who or why.’
‘But . . .’
‘We’ve probably identified the killer, but he’s following someone else’s orders.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The knife.’
‘Oh?’
‘Normal people don’t usually carry knives around with them. The other woman was simply unlucky, but he targeted Lorna Boyce – it was a hit.’
‘What’s sad is that she didn’t even know why someone was trying to kill her.’
