Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  "Found something Inspector," she said, a bit breathlessly, her green eyes earnest.

  He looked at her.

  “Where, what is it?”

  "It’s in the bedroom Sarge. We didn't move it, just looked through it with gloves but I think there might be some important information inside.”

  “Well, what is it then?” He frowned, looking at her.

  “Some sort of diary, I’ll show you, it’s just in there" she said, gesturing toward the bedroom.

  Once inside, she pointed to a small black book on the bedside table.

  “There it is Sarge.” she said. Looking, he recognized it as one of those leather bound journals that people usually recorded their day to day meetings and appointments in. He nodded, motioning for a pair of gloves, and she took some from the open kit box that had been placed on the floor, handing them to him. Pulling them on he began to leaf through the pages.

  "Let me Sarge?" she said, placing a hand on his arm, and looking up at him, her expression eager. He paused, looking at her questioningly.

  “May I pick it up there's a page I wanted to show you?" she asked.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” he said, nodding his assent, as with gloved hands she picked up the book, flipping the pages to find the one she wanted to show him.

  Finding what she was searching for she tapped the page.

  "Here it is Sarge," she said, thrusting the book under his nose. His eyes scanned it with interest curious to learn what was so bloody urgent. The entry appeared to be dated April 8th, two weeks before the victim had been murdered and had been written in big, looping flamboyant letters scrawled in red ink. His eyes moved from left to right as he took in the words.

  Good night tonight. Needed it after last week’s spending spree. Made £800, half of that all from City Boy. My knight in shining armour. Hope he wants to see me again, he took my number and said he might come back and see me. Hope he does, told me he works as a stockbroker in a big company in the City and god knows I could use a rich man to take me out and spoil me.

  City boy. Could he be the killer? If the man she had written about in her diary had turned out to be her murderer it was possible he worked in the City, though far more likely he had lied to her. Wait, hadn't Louise Wheeler, one of the other victims worked for a big finance firm? He turned back to the officer.

  "Good work, thanks for showing me this. I'll keep it to have a look over if forensics are finished with it?" he said, looking at her. She nodded at him.

  Pulling out his mobile phone he dialled Doyle’s number. She answered almost immediately and he spoke rapidly, not pausing for breath.

  "Doyle what was the name of that building the Wheeler girl was found in?"

  "One Financial. Why have you found a link?" she asked him, her voice curious.

  "Possibly. The vic wrote about a client at the club she worked at who was keen on her. Told her he worked in the city.”

  “Yeah?” She sounded excited, “have you got a name?”

  “Nah but I want to question all the employees working in that building. Every bloody floor. Get Barnes and a couple of the others on it too and we’ll work through ‘em.”

  “You sure? That’s going be a big job,” her voice was sceptical.

  “Yeah it’ll likely take us a good couple of days, possibly three or four, but right now apart from the Brook's murder it's the only link I've managed to find. Get me a list of companies working there and we'll start this afternoon."

  "Sure. I'll check the address , when you've finished up here we'll get on to it ok?" she replied.

  "Good and find out where the vic worked as soon as you can. We'll need to go and interview all the staff there as well, especially the ones working on April the 8th."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - BIRTHSTONE

  The tube train was fairly stuffed for this late on a weekday evening and he actually had trouble finding a seat. He opted to hold on to one of the ceiling straps instead, observing the other occupants of the carriage, and making his usual observations about their appearances, habits, and mannerisms. This was a game he liked to play sometimes, while travelling, see if he could read a person without them saying a word to them. He did it to pass the time, did it sometimes even when he wasn't on the underground, and it amused him how often his predictions had turned out to be accurate.

  He eyed the blonde woman sitting in the corner seat, her gaze intense and focused. The hair pulled back in a practical plait, pink slightly wind burned complexion, orange sports jacket and pro style running shoes, all gave the hint that she was a serious athlete rather than a mere indoor gym bunny. But then that was an easy one to guess.

  He turned his attention to the obese guy in the corner, who kept surreptitiously glancing at his tablet computer. Those pudgy digits seemed especially active whenever the train pulled in at a station. That told him he wasn’t playing a game or completing a crossword, but that he needed a signal to load pages from the internet, while the covertness communicated that it was probably pornography he was viewing.

  Edging down the carriage to a vantage point that would enable him to slyly look over the man's shoulder without being observed, he found his suspicions were confirmed. Hit a hole in one with Darren, the page screamed. The accompanying picture showed a blonde muscular guy grinning while holding a golf club in his right hand as he spread his legs, offering his crotch up to the photographer’s lens. He smiled to himself, he had been right again of course. He was usually right, he was clever like that, clever enough to survive all these years without getting caught.

  Mother could never give him his dues though no matter what he did. The memory of the last time he’d seen her, sitting at the café table opposite him came to him then and the smile turned to into a scowl. He noticed the slightly chubby girl opposite him raising an eyebrow curiously.

  Well he didn't care he told himself, he would show his mother, show them all, he was a grown man now. He didn’t need her anymore. Just then he caught sight of his reflection in the carriage window and checked himself. No wonder the girl had been looking at him with such curiosity, he looked ready to hit someone, with his fists clenched tightly like that, he didn’t look like his usual composed self at all.

  Mother had the ability to do that, to get to him, under his skin, like a bloody sticking pin. He had to shut her out, block her out, he couldn't think about her anymore, about her cruelty, the way she always overlooked him, idolized his brother and then, the last time they had met...He bit his lip hard thinking about it and blood flooded his mouth suddenly as he cringed at the memory.

  “I’m doing well now Mother, working in the City, it’s a good firm.”

  “And I suppose you think I forgive you?”

  “Well I hoped…” his voice tailed off and he found himself suddenly floundering, at a loss for what to say.

  She leant across the table towards him, her expression defiant.

  "I will never ever forgive you for the disgusting thing you have done" she said, her mouth pursed.

  “But why can’t you just be glad I’m doing well now? Proud of me even…”

  “Proud?” She sneered, curling her lip, her nostrils flaring with distaste, “I could never be proud of you. You’re a bloody embarrassment.”

  “Mother, please,” he insisted, the tears threatening to fall. She wouldn’t make him cry, she wouldn’t make him show her how much he wanted her approval. She continued angrily.

  “Why couldn’t you be normal, like your brother? It should have been you…n…not him,” she blurted out. He just sat there, opposite her at the table, his face unreadable. It was the same as always. She hated him. Despised him. Wished that he had never been born, she’d told him as much.

  It wasn't that he didn't really expect it, more that he’d hoped this time would be different somehow. But no she was the same as always, denying him any recognition at all. Denying him his proper place. It was worse in fact this time, as he had allowed his hopes to be raised. Well he wouldn’t make that mistake
again.

  The girl continued to watch him curiously, her right arm resting on top of the stack of books that were perched on the armrest of her seat. She was probably a student, she looked like the student type. He appraised her, looking her up and down, she was really rather attractive. Catlike almond shaped eyes slanted back at him curiously as she regarded him watching her, her heart shaped face, framed by messy dirty blonde braids, pretty if not classically beautiful.

  What would it feel like to be inside her? Feeling quite aroused, he shifted uncomfortably on the spot. As if she knew what he was thinking, she smoothed the skirt of her dress down self-consciously, smiling at him and stretching her head first to one side, then the other, baring her slim neck.

  He'd read somewhere, probably in one of those psychology articles downmarket newspapers like to print, that if a woman bared her neck it was supposed to mean she was sexually aroused. Eyeing her breasts hungrily, he wondered if there was any truth in it now. Her cleavage pushed up against the thin cotton fabric of the smock dress she wore, the ribbon gathered under the bust cinching her breasts together, and causing them to spill over the top slightly.

  Smiling in return, he arched an eyebrow at her. He could be quite charming he knew, girls frequently would look at him now, though it certainly hadn't always been this way. He thought back to the shy, strange, skinny kid he had been for so many years, so awkward around women. They had seemed like a strange language to him, so in awe he had been of their bodies, their laughter, their chatter, he hadn’t known how to make conversation with them at all.

  Now though, at least on the surface, he was no longer the gawky kid he had previously been. To the casual observer, he appeared to be the epitome of the successful, charming man about town. Underneath it all though, lay the abyss. The outsider could don the mask but the rage inside could never be silenced. It could never be forgotten, it would never let itself be forgotten and sometimes it threatened to consume him entirely. His mother had seen to that. Her and Sally.

  Sally was the only one who had ever made him feel like it might be different, she had been his first proper sexual experience, and the closest thing he knew he would ever have to the emotion people usually typified as love. She had been his closest confidante, the only one who had ever known his deepest secret back then, but in the end she had rejected him too.

  The train stopped, and the doors opened as the girl stood up, scooping up her pile of books. As she went to move off the train she turned back to look over her shoulder at him, allowing her eyes to linger slightly on his. She wanted him to approach her he realised, and he considered this knowledge for a few seconds before coming to the conclusion he would take the opportunity.

  Grinning, he made to follow her off the train, allowing himself to bump her ever so slightly as the two disembarked, not enough to scare her if he had read the situation wrongly, but enough to warrant an apology from him. The jostle was a lot harder than he had actually intended, and she gasped as he knocked her, some of the books she had been carrying scattering across the floor of the platform.

  "God I'm so sorry," he said, shaking his head as he bent to help her pick them up.

  “It’s quite alright,” she said politely attempting to reassure him.

  "No, I'm so bloody clumsy, you must forgive me," he smiled, looking her over appreciatively as they both stood up again. She blushed slightly, the flush staining her cheeks prettily.

  "Really it's okay." She nodded, looking at him earnestly as they both stood there eyeing each other.

  "Well perhaps I could buy you a coffee to make up for it?" he offered. She smiled at his chivalry and tilted her head to one side, as if she were considering the offer for a moment Perhaps she didn’t want to seem top eager, he’d read women don’t like to appear to keen somewhere.

  "Sure. I can't think of a good reason to say no I suppose," she said. She must have come to the conclusion he looked fairly harmless.

  “Let me escort you fair lady…” he offered her his arm in a friendly manner.

  “God that’s a bit cheesy isn’t it? Is it too late to say no now?” She giggled at him standing there, his arm held out formally.

  “Oh it’s completely too late I’m afraid.”

  “Oh dear. What am I letting myself in for?”

  “Nothing too painful I promise. Try it, you might even like it. It’s only a latte. Don’t worry I won’t try to impregnate you or anything.”

  “Go on then, she said, shaking her head at him, as laughing she took his arm, allowing him to steer her out of the underground station and into the cool dark London evening.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DEACON

  He hated waiting. Deacon looked at the clock on the wall of the small makeshift interview room that had been set up for him in the offices of First Financial, wondering where his next interviewee was. Louise Wheeler, one of the victims, had been working here when her body had been found in the building’s elevator. The successful investments company shared the fourteen storey building with five other financial companies, and its own offices were spread out over three floors.

  The company had been extremely helpful when Doyle had rung to inform them that they would need to interview all staff members, and he hoped the other companies who occupied the building would be as co-operative. Narrowing his eyes he looked at the list of all the employees that had been working at First Financial when Louise had been found. The management's secretary, a friendly woman called Rosa, had compiled it for him at his request and three of the names on the list were crossed out in red as they were now no longer working at the firm. He'd have to follow those up later.

  Another twenty of the names had been crossed out in black ink since he had interviewed them already that afternoon. None of them had had much to say of any significance about the victim. Apparently she had worked on the 9th floor and all the interviewees he had spoken with so far had been based on the 10th, so none of them had had much opportunity to come in to contact with the dead woman.

  A few had seen her around, one had recalled lunching with her and a table of about fifteen other colleagues at a business lunch, to discuss the implementation of some financial research software at the firm. Apart from that though, no one seemed to be able to tell him anything much yet.

  He eyed the next name on the list, Adam Jackson. He looked back up at the clock on the wall; Mr Jackson was late by a full ten minutes. Rosa had helpfully written job titles by the list of names she had printed off, and by Jackson’s name the words Chief Investment Broker, Telecommunications sector were written in small neat caps.

  Obviously Chief Investment Brokers had a slightly different interpretation of time than policemen, or perhaps Jackson was embroiled in a lengthy discussion involving the share price movement of the latest social media website he was advising his wealthy clientele to invest in? Just then there was a knock and a well-spoken male voice called out through the door.

  "Hello?"

  "Yep, come on in" he responded, relieved his interviewee had arrived. Adam Jackson pushed the door open and entered the room, a smug smile on his youthful features as he strode up to the desk and confidently extended his hand.

  "Hi there. Adam Jackson and you are?" Jackson arched his eyebrow slightly as he took the proffered hand.

  "Chief Inspector Deacon Gaine," he replied as Jackson pumped his hand.

  "Ah a pleasure to meet you Inspector Gaine and sorry for my tardiness." His manner seemed a little too slick, though that was probably pretty common around here. Jackson seemed a likeable enough guy although he was a little surprised by how young he looked. Chief Investment Broker? This guy couldn't be a day older than twenty five surely?

  Jackson wore a smart tailored waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, while his lower half was clad in formal black trousers topped off with expensive looking brown leather brogues. The shirt was the sort whose wide lapels and thick material denoted it to have come from a prestigious shirt maker, and the effect created was one of expense and money, powe
r even.

  He motioned to the man to sit down in the plastic high backed chair positioned in front of the desk. The younger man did so sitting legs astride, his hands placed palm down on the tops of his thighs as he grinned at him.

  "So Mr Gaine, what can I do you for today?" he asked, his voice sounding like he found something rather amusing. For some reason he felt slightly irritated by his tone.

  "Mr Jackson, you’re probably aware of the recent death of one of your colleagues, Louise Wheeler, who was employed here at First Financial?” He looked at Jackson, for confirmation, the younger man nodded. He cleared his throat, continuing;

  “Sources inform me that she worked on the 9th floor of this building and I understand this isn't where you are usually based but still I wondered if perhaps you knew of her?"

  Jackson shook his head.

  " Gosh yes, what a ghastly business. I wasn’t actually working here on the day she was murdered so I didn’t hear of it until the next morning.”

  “Did you know Louise well Mr Jackson?”

  “No I didn’t know her personally Inspector, I’m sorry, " the man replied, shrugging. He pushed a colour photograph of the victim's face across the desk, a head and shoulders shot that had been given to the police by her mother, and tapped at it with his finger.

  "If you'd care to take a look at this photograph, perhaps you didn't know her by name but had seen her about the building...?" his voice trailed off hopefully.

  Jackson bent his head forward to study the photograph, he watched the man closely.

  The man looked up at him with a blank expression.

  "Sorry Inspector I really can't help you. I don't remember her at all. Pretty girl though wasn't she?"

  He frowned, that was a bit of a strange thing to say about a murdered girl. Deciding to try a different tack, he pushed another picture under Jackson’s nose. The shot was of Marilyn Channing, a glamour shot, taken in the strip club she had worked in. It wasn’t strictly orthodox since he was supposed to be questioning Jackson on the Wheeler murder but he wanted to test the man’s reaction.