by J M Gregson
‘And when would this be, Mr Knowles?’ Rushton thought he already knew, but he was determined to keep Knowles under pressure, and vulnerable.
‘It was about a fortnight ago. A Wednesday night.’
‘And you first picked up this girl on that night?’
‘After the match and a drink, yes.’
‘That match was on the evening of 25th May.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Mr Knowles, what do you know about a girl called Julie Salmon?’
‘I don’t know anything, I’ve never heard of the girl. Why are you asking me this?’
‘Julie Salmon was raped and strangled on the night of 25th May. The last night when you were in this area. Until last night, that is, when another girl was killed in an identical way.’
CHAPTER 7
Crimes like the Oldford stranglings tend to bring together groups of people who normally find themselves on opposing sides.
The few known prostitutes of the area were brought into the police station to be briefed by Detective-Inspector Susan Wild on the need for care in their movements. It was a strange meeting. DI Wild set up a little half-circle of folding wooden chairs and sat on one herself in front of the women, trying to make the set-up as informal as possible. Coffee was served in cups and saucers by a WPC who did not quite know what her attitude should be to the recipients as she handed round the biscuits. Everything possible was done to make these unusual visitors to the station feel at ease.
It did not work. DI Wild wore the two-piece suit which was her normal plain clothes wear in her office and the CID section. The women wore the leather and plastic, the heavy make-up, the tight, short skirts and fishnet stockings which amounted to the uniform of their trade. These were the known prostitutes, and they were as contemptuous of amateurs as were other professions. The housewives who picked up a little pin-money and disguised the fact beneath respectable clothes were both despised and resented by women who saw them as a threat to their living.
Some of these women were no longer young; there was a high proportion of blondes among them, few of whom were natural; in their normal locations, they watched each other suspiciously, jealous of their own territories and any intrusions upon them. But they assumed a common form of dress, and in the face of this police initiative they presented a united front of suspicion and cynicism.
‘We know about the killings, of course we do,’ said a thirty-year-old who had dropped into the role of their spokesperson. ‘What we want to know is what you’re going to do to protect us.’ She gazed at Inspector Wild with unblinking blue eyes from behind her contact lenses.
‘We’re doing everything we can, of course, Barbara. You’ll get the same degree of protection as any other citizens.’
It was a mistake. There were grins around the group as Barbara said, ‘Oh, thank you very much, ma’am. Toms get the same degree of protection as if they were human beings now. Very enlightened, that.’ She picked up her cup and sipped delicately with her little finger elaborately crooked, as the others tittered at her daring.
‘You know what I mean. As far as our resources go, we’ll look after you.’ Susan Wild tried hard not to get annoyed with the group: she had had to sandwich this meeting into the middle of a busy day. ‘But it’s up to you to cooperate with us. You must help yourselves.’
‘And how do we do that, pray?’ It had been a man who decided that the only female DI in CID should meet this all-female audience, of course. It was a mistake: these women were used to dealing with men, confident with them because they had a wide experience of their weaknesses. They treated the male police with a robust, impersonal distaste which was half way to an understanding. This woman seemed by her very appearance to condemn them, to give off vibrations of disgust for those members of her sex who should choose to make a living as they did.
‘All I’m saying is that you should be careful. Don’t go into isolated places at night. Don’t go with men you don’t know.’
The little semi-circle in front of her grinned sardonically at one another. One of them said, ‘Tell her, Barbara.’ They enjoyed this rare feeling of superiority to a respectable member of the establishment which so regularly pursued them.
The blue-eyed woman said, ‘Listen, dear. We make our living by going with men. And most of them don’t like doing it with an audience. Bashful creatures, men are. But perhaps you wouldn’t know about that.’ She let her eyes rest for a moment on the sensible, low-heeled shoes in front of her, then moved her gaze slowly up the strong, nylon-sheathed calves, over the hem of the grey skirt, up as far as the Inspectorial groin, where it stayed.
DI Wild tried not to notice – managed it, indeed, better than most people would have done. The modern police force has much experience of coping with dumb insolence. She stared at the darker roots beneath the light blonde hair and said, ‘I know you make your livings by going with men. Soliciting is against the law of the land, but it is also a fact of life. But it is my duty to warn you that you may put yourselves in grave danger by doing so.’
Her careful impassivity made more of an impression than anger. They were quietened by the manner rather than the substance of her words. They muttered contemptuously that women like them had a fat chance of keeping away from men as they filed out, but despite their blasé shruggings, they carried a little fear away from the room with them.
And that, in truth, was as much as could be expected. Most of them were not in a position to opt out of their trade at short notice. But the forms had been observed: the Chief Constable was covered, as he had intended when he ordered this meeting. If there were subsequent killings, the press could be assured that all the known prostitutes of the area had been warned about the danger which threatened them.
Amy Coleford had not been called to the briefing at Oldford Police Station. She read the terse press release about the killings in the newspapers and the more lurid speculations of the journalists who sought to develop the story, using the timeworn principles that sex and violence sell newspapers.
Her children were at school; she was able to scare herself with the pronouncements of her older neighbour about the killings as they pegged out their washing and called to each other across the ragged hedge. ‘They should string him up when they get him,’ said Mrs Price. ‘If them that made the law was women, we’d have the buggers hanged, instead of locked up for a few years and then let out to rape us all.’
She shook her head with a thrill of delicious horror at the thought of this mass violation.
‘I expect they’ll get him, eventually,’ said Amy. She realized she was seeking the reassurance of her neighbour’s agreement on this.
‘How many more women will be torn apart before that happens? That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Mrs Price, folding her arms as if she was delivering the challenge in person. She was a squat woman of thirty-seven who looked rather older, square of face and resolute in her conventional opinions. All mass murderers were vaguely linked in her mind with the Yorkshire Ripper, about whom she had read every word she could find. There were only two Oldford murders so far, but she was hoping, half-unconsciously, for the abattoir glamour that a serial killer might bring to the locality.
She had had her two children when she was young, and they were in their late teens now. Since both of them were boys, she had no qualms about their safety amid the present happenings, though she had little idea of where they got to when they went out. She was secretly amazed by how much Amy paid her to baby-sit in the evenings; she was surprisingly and instinctively competent with the two girls of four and five, and she enjoyed the hours in front of the telly when she had got them off to bed.
She had almost ceased to wonder where Amy got to when she was out, or why she needed to go out so often.
Amy was relieved that her neighbour was so incurious. When Harry had first left her with the kids, she had been at her wits’ end. And the maintenance had soon ceased arriving; no one seemed to know or care where Harry was now. It was
a mercy that she had kept her looks: otherwise she could never have supported her kids. They would have been taken into care, instead of being well clothed and cared for. She was saving the state expense, as well as keeping her independence and the children she loved.
She was amazed by how easy it was to make money from men, if you had the looks. When Harry had first walked out, she had tried typing envelopes at home, but it hadn’t even brought in enough to clothe the children. Now, for a few hours’ work on a couple of evenings, she could do all that and more. And most of the men weren’t unkind, though sometimes you had to turn your face to the wall and just think of the money. They were like children really, most of them: they liked you to show them the way.
She’d heard that some of the men you picked up could be quite rough, but she hadn’t met much of that yet. She didn’t think of herself as on the game: it still surprised her that she could get money for this, though she had grown used now to asking for it at the outset. Most of the men seemed to like to kid themselves that she wasn’t really a hardened woman, so it worked out quite well, really.
One or two of them had even said that they loved her after it was over, that they would like to take her away from all this. They all said ‘from all this’, though none of them knew anything of her real life. But they didn’t seem to be ones she particularly liked. Perhaps one day, when she’d solved her problems and looked after her children, she would start again properly with some man; a man who wouldn’t have to pay her for it.
Meanwhile, the money came plentifully and easily. Almost without her noticing it, the couple of nights a week had become three, and then four.
CHAPTER 8
Charles Kemp was not at all put out by the news that the police wanted to talk to him.
He had recognized it as inevitable, once the news of the death of Hetty Brown became public. He was glad that they chose to meet him on his own ground. At Oldford Football Club he was king, just as much as he was among his hirelings in the less public world of his business enterprises.
When the club secretary, Castle, announced that Superintendent Lambert and Sergeant Hook had arrived to see him, he took them into the hospitality suite and waved his hand expansively at the armchairs which were occupied on winter Saturdays by the ample posteriors of visiting directors.
Lambert looked round before accepting the offer, but no more formal seating was available. He nodded his acceptance without a smile. Kemp, determinedly affable, said, ‘Can I offer you drinks, or is the old rule about being on duty still in force?’ He spread his hands a little, his whole attitude saying, ‘I am one of those who refuse to be bound in by bureaucracy, but I am understanding of those who are not such free spirits as I am.’
Kemp knew Lambert was the most dangerous kind of copper, shrewd and tough beneath the quiet exterior. But he also knew that when they had tangled before, he had defeated him.
Lambert said, ‘Mr Castle offered us tea on the way in, and we were happy to accept his offer.’ He sat down in the ample leather club chair, nodding to Hook, who took this as a cue to produce his notebook in his most formal manner. As he did so, a woman of about forty, presumably Castle’s assistant, brought in a tray with a china teapot, matching cups and saucers, and a plate of ginger biscuits. Hook laid down his notebook as she left, and poured the tea and milk with the elaborate care of a large man, as though he feared that he might break the crockery if he did not apply his greatest concentration.
‘Well, gentlemen, I am at your service, anxious only to help the police in the pursuit of their investigations,’ said Kemp, when neither of his visitors showed any inclination to speak.
‘Just as you were two years ago,’ said Lambert, stirring his tea. He looked at Kemp with a distaste he did not trouble to disguise. It had been a serious business: GBH and a man crippled for life. But as usual they had not been able to assemble enough evidence to persuade the Crown Prosecutor to go for this man.
‘Water under the bridge, John. I bear you no ill will for your mistaken allegations at the time.’ Kemp’s smile might not extend to his eyes, but he was pleased with the way he produced the bland, half-mocking tone he remembered from television villains. He flicked his glance to the Sergeant. He had not met Hook before, but there could be little to fear in this slightly overweight and pink-cheeked time-server.
Lambert could see the victim of that assault in his mind’s eye now, depressed and bitter, sitting with a rug over his knees to hide his broken thigh, dependent on social security and the inadequate sum tardily provided by the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. Better, as the lawyers said as they pocketed their fees, to be libelled than battered; more lucrative as well as less painful.
He told himself he must be objective with Kemp, must follow the old policeman’s precept of addressing the case in hand. He said, ‘Did you know a woman called Harriet Brown?’
‘I might have.’ Kemp was suddenly cautious: he had not thought they would be so direct.
‘I presume that means you did. She was in and out of your club on most evenings, it seems.’
‘Not my club, John, more’s the pity. The Roosters is the football club’s concern. And a lucrative one, I’m glad to say.’
Lambert wondered how Kemp knew his Christian name; it fell from his lips like an insult each time he used it. ‘So you knew her.’
Kemp’s mind was working fast beneath his calm, wondering just how much they knew. ‘Know her would be putting it rather strongly, John.’
‘I didn’t mean in the biblical sense, Kemp.’
Kemp did not quite understand this. And like most people afraid to admit to ignorance, he moved the conversation on quickly, revealing more than he had intended. ‘I like to have a drink in the Roosters at night. Keeps me in touch with the supporters. Everyone round here knows Charlie Kemp. You know I have never attempted to be anything but a man of the people, John.’
Lambert decided that he always distrusted men who proclaimed themselves men of the people: to have any validity, the description had to come from others. He looked round the plush hospitality room, wanting to ask Kemp how often the terraces supporters got into here, deciding he must not be tempted. ‘So you drink with them. And you drank with Harriet Brown.’
‘Very probably. I try to move around to different groups. Show the flag for the club. I’m not very good on names – never have been. But it’s very probable that –’
‘How well did you know Hetty Brown?’ The interjection came like a missile, not from Lambert but from Bert Hook, more furious about the baiting of his chief than Lambert was himself.
Though he employed violent men to pursue his business, Kemp was ruffled when he met even the hint of violence to himself. He said, ‘All right, I knew her. What of it?’
Hook knew his Superintendent too well even to look at him now. ‘How well did you know her?’
‘Look, I’m helping you of my own free will. And I can’t say I like your tone. If –’
‘Our information is that she was taken into this room with you. That she spent time alone in here with you. On more than one occasion.’
Lambert had planned this differently; he would have withheld the extent of their knowledge for longer, letting Kemp trap himself in a web of his own evasions and then embarrassing him. But Hook’s instinct to attack was right. Kemp was shaken. His mind was racing with a string of conjectures about how they had come to know so much, and it was not able to come up with answers. He had always thought he knew more about the clumsy manoeuvres of the police than they knew about him, and he was shaken to find that on this occasion he was wrong.
‘Hetty did come in here. It’s not against the law.’
‘No. But you weren’t going to tell us that. And now she’s dead. It makes us wonder why you wished to conceal your relationship with her.’ The positions were suddenly reversed; now it was Lambert who was baiting the man who had felt secure enough to taunt him at the outset.
‘I didn’t conceal –’
�
��Come on!’ Hook’s outrage came out in the shout, which seemed to echo round that quiet, oak-panelled room. ‘You were pretending just now that you weren’t even certain that you knew her.’
‘All right. She came in here. Look, I don’t like your attitude –’
‘Would you prefer that we had this conversation at the station? With your lawyer present, of course, if you would like that. It seems that might only be prudent, now that you’re in the middle of a murder investigation.’ Lambert did not trouble to disguise his satisfaction in the thought. They were not on tape yet; Kemp was merely helping them voluntarily with their inquiries. As a responsible member of the public should.
Kemp stood up now, walking over to where the single long, high window gave a limited view of the pitch outside. They watched his barrel-like torso inflating and deflating as he strove to control his breathing. The Chairman wished suddenly that he was not alone, that he had the reassurance of the brains he employed in different sections of his enterprises at his side. Even the two gorillas who were his muscle would have been a reassurance: even the wife he despised would have reminded these hunters of his respectable side. For he thought of himself now as the quarry of these men. They had scores to settle from the past, and he felt unusually isolated.
He tried as he turned back to them to be conciliatory.
‘Look, she was on the game. You know that now, and I knew it then.’
‘So are you saying you had her in here to warn her about bringing that into the club?’
For a moment he was tempted. Then he said, ‘No. I had sex with her, and paid her for it. That was all.’
‘On how many occasions?’ Hook’s voice was for the first time unemotional; he held his pen expectantly above the pad.
‘Two, maybe three. Look, there won’t be any need to –’
‘Was she in here last night?’
