“Mr Jackson have you ever seen this girl before?” he said, observing the man’s expression carefully.
Jackson stared at the second picture.
“Nope, sorry again Inspector, can’t help you who is she?”
“Her name is Marilyn Channing and her body was discovered outside her house by a fellow resident. Her throat had been cut,” he replied, his eyes still on the man’s face. Jackson shook his head again, his mouth making a noise of disapproval.
"Such a shame" he said slowly. He couldn't help thinking that his tone sounded a little insincere.
"Death is always a shame isn’t it, especially when it happens at such a young age. Miss Channing must have been around the same age as you are when she was murdered."
Jackson’s reply didn't miss a beat, "I'll take the compliment Inspector,” he grinned, “But I'm quite a bit older, 33 in fact, though everyone always tells me I look a fair bit younger than that." Raising his eyebrow, he nodded at the man politely, he hadn’t mean to give this slick Rick a compliment but 33, really?
"Indeed you do" he said, "I'll have whatever it is you're having in your morning coffee if you don't mind." The younger man’s smile broadened.
"So is that all Inspector?” Jackson rose to his feet. “
Sorry I couldn't help you with your investigation but well, as I am sure you appreciate we have a lot of employees here. Perhaps you'll have better luck on floor 10 where you said the poor girl worked."
He nodded. "I certainly hope so. This man, whoever he is, is obviously highly dangerous and I intend to find him-”he broke off as a sharp rap on the door interrupted him. Doyle's voice rang out loudly from the other side of the door.
"Gaine! Can I come in?"
She sounded stressed and he wondered what was wrong.
"Come in Doyle," he called out, turning to Jackson with an apologetic expression.
"Sorry about this, let me just see what my partner wants, I won't keep you too much longer.” Doyle entered the room, clutching a small piece of yellow paper in her hand, her usually pale complexion looking slightly more flustered and red cheeked. She hurried across the room to the desk where he sat as he looked up at her questioningly.
"I called the strip club where the latest victim worked earlier and left a message. They just called me back one of the staff remembered seeing some guy watching Marilyn.”
“Oh?” His ears pricked up.
“Yeah, Apparently she said he’s a businessman who's been in three times in the last month. Here’s the details,” she thrust the piece of paper at him. Peering down he took a look, reading out the name that had been scrawled down next to the name of the club and a phone number.
“Vincent Shem, that’s him?”
“Yeah, last week he spent four hours in the club just sitting watching her. Could be a lead on our guy, want me to head down there and check it out now?" She turned around, as if aware for the first time that there was someone else in the room with them. Spying Jackson standing there, she winced, looking embarrassed.
"Uh sorry to burst in like that but I thought you’d appreciate the briefing, "she said looking over Jackson briefly with a polite nod of acknowledgement.
"It’s alright we were pretty much finished up here anyway. This is Mr Adam Jackson, Chief Investment Broker of Telecommunications here," he replied, arching an eyebrow at her as he spoke. They had a shared sense of humour about slick city types.
She grinned, turning to face Jackson and extending a hand.
"Mr Jackson, I’m Detective Inspector Jenny Doyle, pleased to meet you," she said, as Jackson took it.
"An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance Detective" he replied, smiling and holding the hand just a little longer than was strictly necessary. To his horror Doyle didn’t seem to mind a bit, smiling back instead as she looked him in the eyes.
“Bit of a charmer huh?” she grinned, winking at Jackson. Jackson winked back, smiling like a cat. He cringed internally, why were some otherwise perfectly sensible women such suckers for a slick patois? The man was a little too efficient an operator for his liking. The younger man was quite attractive, if you went in for that polished shiny look, but he still didn't quite know why it bothered him so much that Doyle seemed to be taken by Jackson’s slick act.
Trying to gain some sort of foothold amidst the two's little semi- flirtation he turned to Doyle.
“Oh yes I'm sure Mr Jackson here is quite the charmer with the ladies. Have to give the chap his due I suppose, certainly doesn't look his age.”
“And how old are you Mr Jackson?” She turned to Jackson enquiringly, looking intrigued.
“Can you believe he’s 33, doesn't look a day over 23 does he?”
“Bloody hell, you’re 33 really?” Doyle’s mouth was agape, “Wow, what's your secret, do tell, I’m 33, and I look every bloody inch of it,” she said, acting a little too impressed.
“Surely not? I had you pegged at not a day older than 25.
Jackson’s smooth reply and perfectly staged look of mock shock made him want to throttle him. He had to interject or he feared he was going to vomit.
"Ok Doyle, head down and interview that source, report back to me when you're done. I'll press on and get some more interviews racked up before everyone leaves alright?" He spoke quickly, wanting to rap the whole thing up now, Jackson was starting to really irk him with that wide boy manner of his.
She nodded, turning to him, "Rightio," she said, giving him a mock salute as if he were a Sergeant Major who’d just barked an order at her. She turned to face Jackson.
"Take care Mr Jackson" she grinned, before she walked out of the room, leaving them both staring at her retreating back.
“Take care Mr Jackson.” What had come over her she was practically fawning? In the ten years he had known her he'd never seen sensible Jenny Doyle speak like that to any man, and it had irritated him to see her making eyes at this joker, with his used car salesman slickness.
Jackson grinned as he turned to face him, his expression one of smug satisfaction.
"Fine upstanding officer you've got there Sir, here at First Financial we're never slow to realise the value of an asset and Detective Inspector Doyle certainly must be a valuable asset to you." His lip curled distastefully; he really didn't like this sleaze talking about Jenny that way. Reaching for the black ballpoint pen on the desktop he uncapped it giving the man a hard stare.
"Alright Mr Jackson, if you really don't have anything else to tell me about Louise Wheeler, you can go. Though do you have a contact number that I might reach you at if we do need to ask you further questions?"
"Of course" Jackson replied jauntily, reaching into his right hand trouser pocket and thrusting forward a small white rectangular piece of card with a flourish. He took the card, examining it with a cursory glance, the paper looked thick, expensive, and the elegant black letters were embossed in a glossy ink. He tucked it into his pocket.
"Thank you Sir, you can go now we'll be in touch if we need you," he assured the younger man.
"Please do. Good to meet you Inspector, and good luck with your investigation."
He scowled as Jackson left the room, the door banging shut with a heavy thud behind him. It was only on the way home that he realized he’d not actually told Jackson how old Marilyn Channing had been when she died.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - BIRTHSTONE
She would wear an Aquamarine since she was born in May. It would match her eyes. He remembered how they had looked into his such a clear blue and so bright, across the little table in the Paddington coffee shop as he rode the Circle Line to the small flat where Caroline Meagan lived. He'd not visited her there before but when he’d called she'd invited him over for pizza and vodka. Perhaps she was lonely that evening, perhaps she needed someone’s, anyone’s company, or perhaps she had wanted his company in particular.
Her voice had sounded friendly, almost relieved to hear from him, she’d probably decided he wouldn't bother calling her again afte
r that first accidental meeting on a tube train. He looked around the brightly lit underground carriage that steered its cargo deep underneath the London streets, ferrying them in secret to their destinations, unbeknown to those above ground.
The train was mostly deserted, apart from a homeless man snoozing in the corner, his cheek pressed up against the unforgiving hardness of the safety glass, and a middle aged sharp looking brunette, whose face had the unfortunate appearance of looking permanently disapproving.
Then again it was only 10:30 pm, and the pubs and bars wouldn't be ejecting their nightly spew of drunks and other revellers quite yet. He hoisted the carrier bag containing the bottle of vodka he'd brought underneath his arm, and glanced briefly at the announcements board.
Paddington was the next stop. He looked at his appearance in the tube train’s window. He'd dressed smartly but casually for the occasion, a button down blue polo shirt and jeans with a smart dark brown corduroy blazer over the top. Suitable attire for a casual night in on the sofa with a girl. Who'd have imagined he, who used to be so shy around girls would now find it relatively easy to talk to women, to be charming, even to have them show interest in him.
His train of thought was interrupted as the automatic doors opened, and he looked up with a start, this was the stop he needed. Disembarking from the train he picked his way out of the station, weaving through streets that were dotted here and there with shops, cafes, and pubs. Eventually he stood outside the terraced mews house where Caroline had told him she had a flat on the third floor.
After buzzing the intercom the front door opened on to a small hallway and a flight of stairs. Climbing the stairs until he reached the third floor, he saw she was already peeking around the door of her flat waiting for him, her large blue eyes crinkling up, her full lips curved in a generous smile. She leant forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“Hello you,” she said warmly, taking him by the arm and leading him inside. He noticed she was dressed as if she were going out, in a sparkly sequinned vest top and short jeans skirt. Her hair was styled more casually though, and worn loose to her shoulders, framing her face flatteringly, and her skin was bare of any discernible cosmetics.
Her face looked slightly at odds with her showy attire. It was rather reminiscent of a Modigliani painting with that long pale, oval and those slanted, sultry, hooded blue eyes. He allowed her to lead him through to the lounge, where a sofa covered in a patchwork throw sat surrounded by three brightly coloured striped Indian rag rugs. Several white pillar candles, the kind typically found in church services, were dotted around, their blazing wicks the only source of illumination in the cozy looking room.
Gesturing to the small, circular glass coffee table, where two empty glasses and a pizza delivery company’s flyer sat, she looked at him, smiling brightly.
“Glad you could make it. Didn't think I'd see you again, we did have a laugh that evening we first met though didn’t we?”
“We did and I'm glad you invited me,” he grinned, “hard to think of a better way to spend an evening than in the company of a pretty lady.” Looking slightly embarrassed she blushed slightly.
“Oh look whose saying all the right things, “she said, “what do you want then?” She pulled a skeptical face at him, but she sounded pleased.
“Pour us both a large one?” She gestured to the two glass tumblers on the coffee table as she sat down perching herself on the edge of the couch. The relative skimpiness of the top she wore had the effect of pushing up and displaying her soft white ample breasts to good advantage. Nodding at her request, he began to unscrew the cap of the bottle.
He’d kissed her the first evening they had met, after they had left the coffee shop he’d taken her to, as he'd walked with her to the small Italian restaurant she waitressed at while she studied for her degree in art history. But Marilyn had been on his mind then, and he had had to deal with her first before he could move on. That was the way it always worked, he liked the focus, the intensity of becoming completely absorbed in someone.
Tonight though was all about the chase. She was ripe for it he could sense the lust in her eyes as she looked at him, her eyes lingering on his. The way she allowed her tongue to pass over those full lips while looking at him like that, oh yes, she wanted him.
In truth he'd almost rather she wasn't quite as keen, he enjoyed keeping his distance, enjoyed this part of it. He liked teasing himself with what he couldn't have, and well, here she was making it all a little too easy for him. It didn't matter though, not in the end. They were all fickle, all the same, and she might pretend she was keen now but she'd eventually get tired of him. Just like Sally had, then she’d try to get rid of him, shut him out. Unless he stopped her before she had the chance to reject him.
He poured a large measure of the whiskey in to a tumbler and handed it to her. Taking it, she pretended to examine the glass, turning it one way and the other, looking first at it, and then him questioningly.
“What shall we toast then?” she said, her smile slightly awkward, as if she were hoping he would say something she didn't quite have the courage too. He held up his glass.
“To indulging our deepest desires,” he said, clinking the tumbler against her own and taking a large swig. She stared at him for a second, as if she were trying to make sense of what he had said. Deciding she was pleased with it after all, she beamed at him and took a swig from the glass she held.
“Alright well to that then,” she replied swallowing the liquid, her eyes widening slightly at the taste of the neat spirit.
“Too sharp?” Grinning, he noted her disgusted expression.
“Sorry not used to Russian Vodka,” she spluttered, eyeing the bottle on the table.
“Hey, that’s finest Stolichnaya, you can’t beat that,” he said, his smile broadening as he watched her.
She shook her head vigorously as if she were clearing water from her ears, “it’s…certainly something,” she said, obviously still struggling with the strong taste.
“You should have said, I’d have got you a mixer.”
She tilted her head to look at him.
“It’s alright. Well I suppose it’s pretty established that I’m a bit of a lightweight when it comes to spirits now anyway.”
“Eh you’re not a lightweight,” he dismissed her comment, “it’s strong that stuff, the first time you drink it that’s all.”
“Trying to get me drunk are you?” she giggled, bantering at him. Oh she wanted it alright.
“Perhaps,” he smiled.
“Hrrmm, whatcha planning to do with me when you get me drunk though?”
“That would be telling.” He grinned, wouldn’t she like to know. She tilted her head to one side, looking at him, an enquiring expression on her face.
“So tell me then, what are your deepest desires, or am I going to have to get you totally and utterly plastered before .you tell me?” She smiled as she spoke the words.
“Oh I have plenty, can think of a couple in particular right now in fact,” he said, allowing his eyes to graze her plump cleavage, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement, as he raised his eyebrows at her. Pressing her lips together as if stifling another giggle, she fiddled with a piece of her hair, brushing the tips of it over her naked collarbone as she looked at him.
He noticed the fabric bangles she wore around her wrist, the kind he remembered had been so popular back in the Nineties at school, sold at the sort of head shops that had brightly coloured bongs displayed in the window, the pungently scented incense assaulting your nostrils even as you passed by the store on the pavement outside.
“Do you want to order the pizza?” she said, looking at him.
“If you like,” he shrugged, he didn’t care for pizza much.
“Uhh you wanna see the flyer? I'm on for Hawaiian but I'm flexible if you don't like the pineapple,” she offered, nibbling at her bottom lip as she held out the brightly coloured pamphlet she’d picked up off the table top.
Smiling at her he reached out, running his hand lightly up over her arm. She was nervous, he liked that, it added to the anticipation somehow. She gave a little shiver, smiling and looking away coyly, as he cupped her face and turned it to face his own, bending down slightly to press his lips against hers. Kissing her deeply, he allowed his hands to roam over her shoulder blades, brushing the sides of her neck. She smelt of spice and vanilla, musky and sweet, similar but not quite the same as the scent Sally had worn. He liked it though, he’d smelt it before, what was it called something celestial, Heaven, no, Angel that was it. She was an angel.
“No. She’s a filthy whore. Disgusting.” Shut up mother, not now. It’s not time now. He pushed her back on to the couch, moving on top of her, kissing her mouth. She kissed him back, her hand fumbling with his zipper, attempting to tug it down.
“You’re an abomination. A freak. They’d never want you.” I told you to shut up mother.
He bit her lip hard suddenly. Surprised she gave a little scream of pain, attempting to push him off. Pinning her down with his bodyweight, he caught the wrist that was attempting to unzip his flies, forcing her arm high above her head as his other hand pushed her skirt up. Bending his head to her bloody lip, he kissed it; her blood tasted slightly metallic. Moaning with pleasure she parted her thighs, allowing him to pull down her flimsy G-string underwear. He pulled back, drinking in the sight of her, before bending his head to the soft mound of blonde curls between her legs.
“It’s a sin. A perversion.”
How often did she do this, inviting virtual strangers into her home and letting them touch her like this? She was just like all the others, he was becoming more aroused and excited now. How dare she tempt him into this he had to resist her wickedness.
“You’re nothing but a filthy little freak.”
Dead Blonde Page 10
