by Michael Kerr
“No. If it’s a Beeb employee, then he or she is contained. We can narrow it down.”
“True. Barney can get access to personnel files. Most will be easy to discount. We can flag any likely individuals, then do background checks. See if any have criminal records, or have been under treatment for any form of mental disorder. The field will get smaller.”
“That’s the long haul. I think we can do it a lot quicker. Barney can have fibres lifted from any Toyota Corolla registered during the relevant years. If we get a match to fibres found at the scenes, then it’s a wrap. DNA will tie it up.”
“It sounds easy when you put it like that. But we have a deadline; the first Friday in December.”
“I’d like to think that one of these two is responsible,” Mark said, nodding to the faxes. “But I’ve got a feeling in my bones that we’re on the wrong track.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The passing years and addiction to junk food and cigarettes had not been kind, and had definitely taken their toll. She had always been overweight, but now, at still only twenty-nine, was a gross figure with no curves to advertise her gender.
Laying on her side, awake and facing the window, her stomach was a vast mass nestling on the mattress like a water-filled pink balloon collapsing under its own sagging weight before her, as did her pendulous breasts.
Dawn was heralded not by trumpets or birdsong, but the roar of engines, as a large jet drifted over the rooftops to land at Heathrow. As if in response, the alarm clock buzzed with the sound of an irate wasp in a bottle. She ignored it. It was at Vicky’s side. She was content to play possum and let her sleeping partner wake up and rise first.
Vicky snorted, produced a long, rolling fart, then grunted and reached out, swatting the clock and silencing it.
Funny, Ellen thought, (as Vicky sat up, swung her legs out of bed, stretched her arms and yawned), how the demure forty-year-old would die of embarrassment if she were to break wind so freely when awake and in company. She was reserved in all her actions, aside from lovemaking, during which she would vocalise her orgasmic delight by screaming four-letter-words with ‘gay’ abandon.
Vicky was slim – the antithesis of Ellen – with a creamy complexion and bright cyan eyes; the overall package giving a false impression of youth.
“Good morning, darling,” Ellen said, heaving herself over to the middle of the bed in unconscious mimicry of a sea-lion flopping up on to a beach, the rippling fat following along behind the bone structure beneath it, stretching soft muscles to the limit. “You look good enough to eat.”
Vicky smiled and walked around the bed, to lean over and kiss Ellen on the mouth.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll go down, let Mr Tibbs out, and make us both a nice cup of tea. How does that sound?”
“Mmmm, good. I won’t be long,” Ellen said, watching her partner walk across to where her dressing gown hung behind the door. She felt a warm tingle inside at the sight of Vicky’s narrow-hipped, boyish figure. Her bottom was tight, still defying gravity, and her small breasts were pert, with large, dark nipples.
Ellen listened as Vicky emptied her bladder and flushed the toilet. She then levered herself up into a sitting position and plumped the pillows against the headboard to rest her back against, before reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lighter that were on the top of the bedside cabinet next to her. She lit up and inhaled deeply, instantly coughing as her lungs rebelled against the hot smoke. It was her habit to wait until Vicky had made the tea before venturing downstairs.
After stubbing the cigarette out, Ellen went into the bathroom to sit on the wooden seat, unmindful of her buttocks overflowing it, or of her stomach resting on the front of her tree-trunk-thick thighs. Looking in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, she acknowledged that she resembled a Sumo wrestler, and promised to contain, then reduce her burgeoning mass. After all, she was far from stupid. Being morbidly obese was putting a strain on her heart, as well as putting her at risk of numerous other assorted ailments that would inevitably shorten her life. ‘Be fat, be happy’ was a slogan that she had read in some glossy magazine. No doubt whoever had penned it was a fat bitch herself, who thought that shopping in outsize stores and only being able to see her feet by way of a mirror’s reflection was in some way chic. Ellen could find no benefits in carrying the equivalent of another human being around in her skin. She so much wanted to be as svelte as Vicky, though would never admit it.
The window reverberated in its frame as yet another several hundred ton of flying steel throttled back and seemed to float over the semi in Stanwell, somehow supported on a raft of cold winter air.
“Only today matters, so be a happy camper,” Ellen said aloud, already looking forward to a couple of thousand calories in the mouth-watering form of fried bacon and eggs, accompanied by a stack of toast dripping with butter, and a mug of sweet, hot tea. All thoughts of fighting flab were banished for another day. Tomorrow was always the best time to deal with problems and vexations that dampened the spirit...and tomorrow never comes.
Pulling on a thick, white towelling robe, which would have served as a fancy-dress costume, should she ever want to attend such an event as a giant snowball, Ellen clumped down the stairs, ignoring their creaks of complaint as they bowed grudgingly under her weight.
“It’s time we moved away from here,” Vicky said as Ellen entered the kitchen and slumped into a chair at the Formica-topped table, panting open-mouthed like an overheated dog.
“Where to?” Ellen said, holding a pudgy hand to her racing heart.
“Anywhere that isn’t next to a bloody airport,” Vicky said, placing a mug of freshly brewed tea in front of Ellen.
“I’d like to go back up north. Wouldn’t it be great to live somewhere in the Yorkshire Dales, or even the Lake District?” Ellen said.
Vicky shrugged. “What about work, which equates to much needed cash?”
“We could open a cafe, or run a small guest house or B & B.”
“Absolutely. I’d enjoy that. I’m sick of London,” Vicky said, reaching into a pocket for her own cigarettes, and quickly lighting one. “Although I worry about how we would be treated in a small community out in the sticks,” she added, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of eggs. “I don’t want to be persecuted for being gay.”
Ellen smiled. “I may have had counselling and be able to control my anger these days, Vicky. But any moron who gave us a hard time would be given one warning to stay the fuck out of our lives. I wouldn’t want any trouble with turnip-eating bumpkins, but if they wanted to go that route, then they’d find me more lethal than foot and mouth.”
“ARMED POLICE!” A loud, disembodied voice erupted, causing them both to freeze in bewilderment.
Time bent and slowed in Ellen’s mind as both the back and front doors imploded. Vicky dropped the carton, and it seemed to fall with the tardiness of a soap bubble, to disgorge the eggs, which cracked open as they hit the tired linoleum, sending slimy, transparent tentacles of albumen and burst suns of yolks into the air.
“Ellen Garner lives in Stanwell with an ex-air hostess called Vicky Wade,” Mike said. “She doesn’t drive, but the Wade woman does, and guess what, boss?”
“This isn’t a bloody quiz show like The Chase, Mike,” Barney said. “Just tell me.”
“She owns a Toyota Corolla.”
“That makes her our prime suspect, then,” Barney said, studying a report from the lab. “Tyler’s DNA doesn’t match. He’s out of the frame.”
“You think that these two women are in it together?”
“I don’t know. But we have enough to assume that they might be.”
“You want to pull them in?”
“Yes, but with appropriate safeguards. I’d rather have an armed unit lift them. If these women are responsible for the park killings, then they’re bloody lethal, to be considered as highly dangerous.”
“Will the super okay it?”
“Pearce
will sign the paperwork if it’s put to him properly.”
“When will it go down, boss?”
“We’ll coordinate it for early Monday morning. We’ll keep them under surveillance till then. Organise the team into pairs and arrange for twenty-four-hour cover.”
“What about Dr Ross? Are you going to involve him?”
“Yes. He’s in it for the duration. I want his input when we interview these two.”
Figures in black swarmed into the kitchen, knocking Vicky to the floor as they filled the small room.
Ellen attempted to stand up, but the cold muzzle of an assault rifle met her forehead and forced her back into the chair.
“Just stay on your arse, lady, and put your hands behind your back, now,” a young officer with threatening eyes and a tight, nervous expression on his chiselled face said as one of his colleagues moved in with a pair of ratchet cuffs.
Ellen was in shock as she was handcuffed, roughly pulled to her feet and hustled to the door. From the corner of her eye she saw Vicky being held down, with the side of her face pressed into the mess of raw eggs. Frog-marched outside into the grey light, Ellen began to shiver as her robe fell open to disclose her nakedness. At that moment a surge of adrenaline powered into her muscles, and bright red anger misted her vision. She let out a high-pitched shriek of rage, lowered her head and charged, driving the top of her skull into the back of one of her captors.
Officer Chris Buckley thought that the operation had been money for old rope, until an explosion of pain in his spine sent him staggering forward, to fall to the ground in a twisted heap.
Ellen followed up, as hands frantically tore at her robe in an effort to hold her back. She kicked out with her slippered foot and felt a deep sense of satisfaction as her toes smacked into the man’s upturned face. She was like a runaway train with a full head of steam powering her. Ignoring the pain that coursed through her toes from contact with the copper’s head, she threw herself backwards into the reaching arms behind her. At least two cops went down, falling like ninepins, to be almost flattened as her bulk landed on top of them.
“Eat shit and die, you wankers,” she screamed vehemently, before the butt of a rifle was smashed into her temple, cutting off any further thoughts, insults or actions.
Ellen regained consciousness to the sound of her own moaning. The throbbing pain in her head made her feel sick to the stomach, and for a few confused moments she had no recollection of what had happened. As the memory of the incident seeped back, she tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. Why not?
With her eyes slitted against the harsh light, she raised her head, looked about her and groaned out loud as a bolt of fire lanced through her brain. She was in a hospital room. A nurse approached the bed, and behind her, standing next to the door was another female, her hands clasped loosely in front of her crotch.
Looking down the bed, Ellen studied the wide, nylon restraining straps, that resembled car safety belts snugly pinioning her across chest, waist, and just above her knees. She croaked, “What the fuck is going on?” Her mouth was bone-dry and her voice reminded her of the cartoon character, Popeye, as she directed the question past the nurse to the other woman, who was now talking in hushed tones into a mobile phone or radio, so was obviously a cop.
“By all accounts, you went berserk,” Barney replied to the same question, thirty minutes later, after rushing to the hospital on receiving the call from DC Louise Callard.
Ellen’s blood pressure soared, causing her head to pound like a base drum. “Armed men dressed in black like fuckin’ ninjas smash down the doors of our house at dawn and attack us, and you have the balls to tell me that I went berserk,” she said, her words clipped and loaded with venom as she strained against the binds that held her. “I’m going to sue your fuckin’ lot for every penny they’ve got. You assaulted two defenceless women, then compounded it with wrongful arrest. Where’s Vicky? What have you done to her; pistol-whipped her senseless, or just put her up against a wall and shot her in the fuckin’ head?”
“Ms Wade is fine,” Barney said, relieved that the raging woman was strapped down, but still half expecting her to swell up to even bigger proportions, turn green and snap the belts like tissue paper, to rise like the Incredible Hulk and maybe rip his head off and stick it up his arse. “We believe that you and your friend may be able to help us with our inquiries into a serious crime.”
“What fuckin’ crime?” Ellen said.
“Do you know a woman by the name of Caroline Sellars?” Barney said, ignoring her question.
Ellen frowned and said, “Yes, well, no. I did know a Caroline Sellars a long time ago. Why?”
“That will be all, Officer,” a grey-haired doctor said, striding into the room after being summoned by the nurse. “If you want to interview this patient, then I suggest you come back in twenty-four hours. She has suffered a mild concussion and needs rest. I also intend to remove the restraints. This is a hospital, not a prison or asylum.”
“Right on, Doc,” Ellen said. And addressing Barney. “And tomorrow you’ll be talking to my solicitor, you Nazi prick.”
Barney turned on his heel and left.
Vicky Wade knew her rights. She refused to say a word without having a solicitor present, because she had not been charged with anything. The experience of the assault on the house, and the way in which she had been restrained and cuffed did not promote an ounce of faith in her captors. Barney could see that she would not cooperate without the counsel of someone she trusted.
An hour later, with a legal beagle at Vicky’s side, Barney set the tapes going, and with a WPC and Mark Ross in attendance, started the interview. Mark had been contacted at Cranbrook midmorning by DS Mike Cook, with an invitation to be present.
“Do you know Caroline Sellars, Ms Wade?” Barney said to the woman, who was now clothed in a thick sweater, jeans and trainers, that a WPC had brought from the house in Stanwell.
“I... I’ve never heard the name before,” Vicky said.
“Can you tell me your whereabouts between midnight on Thursday the third and seven a.m. on Friday the fourth of September?”
“Yes,” Vicky said. “That’s easy. I always go to bed before midnight, apart from Saturdays. And I get up at seven o’clock on Monday through Friday for work.”
Barney also quizzed her over October the second and November the sixth, and was given the same answer.
“And what about Ms Garner? Would you know beyond any doubt where she was at those times?”
“Don’t answer that, Vicky,” Charles Lamont, the solicitor, said. And to Barney. “I am representing both Ms Wade and Ms Garner, Detective Chief Inspector Bowen. I would recommend that you ask my other client these questions directly.”
“We haven’t spent one night apart in over two years,” Vicky said, unbidden. “Mr Lamont tells me that you are investigating those park murders, and I am horrified that you would even think that Ellen or I might have anything to do with them.”
“We require a DNA swab from you, Ms Wade, and also fibre samples from the carpeting of your car,” Barney said. “Do either of those requests present any problems?”
“I don’t think―” the solicitor began.
“It’s all right,” Vicky broke in. “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and neither does Ellen. Take whatever samples you need, Inspector, then please let us go home. Mr Tibbs will be starving and frightened.”
“Mr Tibbs?” Barney said.
“Our cat,” Vicky said, then started sobbing and covered her face with both hands as her shoulders began to hitch violently.
“I think you can safely cut her loose, once you’ve got a swab,” Mark said after they had left the interview room.
Barney frowned. “You believe her?”
“Yeah, and so do you. Her body language was screaming her innocence. And her answers to your questions were unguarded and obviously truthful.”
“She could be a good actress.”
“And I could be
George Clooney, but I’m not.”
“I don’t like the coincidence of the Garner woman living in the area. Or the fact that her...girlfriend owns a Toyota.”
“If Ellen Garner committed those murders, then I’m convinced that Vicky has no knowledge of it. And how many Toyota Corollas are registered in the Greater London area? If Vicky gets up at seven every morning, then there’s no way that Ellen could have killed those women and got home before Vicky was awake and missed her.”
“Garner could have drugged her; slipped her a couple of sleeping pills. But if you’re right, we’re back to square one.”
“I don’t believe that Ellen is involved, Barney. I think the killer is a man, working alone.”
“Let’s see what Miss Personality Plus has to say in the morning, when the hospital discharges her.”
“I’ll stay at Amy’s tonight and call you first thing,” Mark said, then left the building. He jogged across the windswept car park to JC, climbed in and pondered for a while, letting all the facts of the case separate out. What had Caroline Sellars done? Or what was she hiding from them? She must have done or said something to instigate such dire retribution. No, that was a logical line of thought. He wasn’t dealing with logic here, but with psychosis that could not be slotted neatly within normal parameters. He was looking to find a nightmare made of flesh and blood, which could not be treated as a normal, rational man or woman. The killer, who he still thought was a man, did not think or function in any way that could be easily predicted. He was an almost separate species, with thought processes as alien as a scorpion or shark. He was terrorising Caroline from a distance. Her mind was being crushed in a grip of evil, by a person who was without conscience.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With her head swathed in bandage, and her solicitor sitting next to her, Ellen felt in total control of the situation.
