by J M Gregson
Trying to ignore the hand-held television camera which seemed to be moving right into his face, he said with confidence that they were hopeful of an arrest ‘within the next few days’. He could almost feel the Chief Constable’s eyebrows rising behind him. He told himself resolutely that George Harding was too skilled a diplomat to allow himself any facial expression which might be so revealing.
Lambert wondered if the killer would be watching the telecast that night, and what he might make of that statement. Would he be watching alone, or with some unsuspecting woman at his side?
It was when he was called up to the Chief Constable’s office after the conference that Lambert received the shock which drove such conjecture from his mind.
George Harding introduced the woman with brisk formality. ‘Superintendent Lambert, this is Detective-Sergeant Ruth David.’
She was tall, with the willowy figure of an athlete but a shape which must have given her some difficulties with the raw young constables who had been trained alongside her She had ash-blonde hair and eyes of a deep green, set either side of a nose which was a fraction too definite for perfection. Even in her sensible police issue shoes and dark stockings, her legs were inescapable as she settled herself in an armchair at the Chief Constable’s bidding. She looked to Lambert no more than nineteen.
He learned in the next few minutes that she was a graduate entry to the force, that she had served three years, that she was in fact now twenty-six: he was getting old. They sat in three of the armchairs in the CC’s panelled, well-furbished office, nibbling biscuits and drinking tea, while Lambert waited for Harding to reveal to him what connection this attractive member of the force had with his investigation of the Strangler killings.
Was there to be the suggestion of a reconstruction of one of the crimes? Hardly likely: they had decided earlier in the week that such an exercise would be a dissipation of their resources, with little chance of anyone coming forward with new information. And this striking girl did not look much like any of the victims, even allowing for the addition of the right wig and clothes. She was too tall, for a start.
The CC was probably watching him and taking a small pleasure from his uncertainty, for he eventually said, ‘Well, John, time to put you out of your misery. We have a suggestion to offer, Sergeant David and I. The right of veto is yours, as always, but we’d like you to consider the idea very seriously before you decide whether to use it or reject it.’
Beneath his easy, almost teasing urbanity, he was a little uneasy. He had not so far had many dealings with this most senior of his superintendents, and he did not want any public outburst from him about the unorthodoxy he was proposing. But then you could hardly call anything public when it was said in front of one sergeant in the Chief Constable’s office.
Lambert felt as though he was trying to help things on when he said, more stiffly than he would have liked, ‘We’re willing to try anything, sir. You know the state of the inquiry. We have four leading suspects, but still no absolute certainty that our efforts should be confined to them.’
‘We also have a suggestion that our killer might even come from within the ranks of the force,’ said Harding grimly. Probably he caught Lambert’s involuntary glance at the woman opposite him, for he said, ‘I have taken the decision to brief Sergeant David fully on the state of play. If she is to be involved in an attempt to trap your murderer, she needs to know everything we know.’
Lambert said without looking at her again, ‘May I ask exactly what part it is suggested that Sergeant David might play in our investigation?’ He was disconcerted again by the stuffiness of his own reaction: this development had caught him off guard.
‘I thought we might plant her at the Roosters and see what she can pick up.’ Harding smiled at the grim ambivalence of the phrase, which he had not intended.
‘With respect, sir, I think that is far too dangerous. I shouldn’t like to take the responsibility for putting anyone in that situation.’ Let alone an inexperienced young girl like this, he thought; he had just enough sense to realize he should not offer up any such hostage to feminism, but only just.
George Harding smiled. He had relaxed from the brisk, confident chief he had presented in the media conference; he looked older and more tired. His frizzy hair was almost white at the temples, more untidy than it had been in front of the cameras. He was a fit man for his age, in a well-cut uniform, but beneath it what had been hard muscle was relaxing a little into a natural plumpness. He said, ‘That was my reaction too, at first, John. I didn’t think the risk was justified. But now that we’re in private, we can agree that this is a pretty desperate situation, warranting desperate remedies.’
‘Hardly desperate, sir, surely. We’re –’
‘We’re no closer to an arrest than we were two days ago. And we all think time is the key factor on this one. If we go another week, we’ll have another woman dead – perhaps more than one.’
‘All the same, there must be other possibilities. If I could just discuss this one with some of my senior officers –’
‘No!’ The negative came from Harding like a pistol shot. ‘Look, John, I’ve read your report of your conference this morning. I noted the views of your forensic psychologist. He suggests we might have a professional man involved: possibly a police officer. Do you disagree with that?’
‘No. Not as one possibility among others. It was I who brought the forensic psychologist in. But that wasn’t the only thing he said.’
‘I’m aware of that, John. But if there’s even the possibility that one of our officers might be a psychopath, it means that we must keep any new initiatives we take within as small a group as possible.’
Lambert nodded glumly. While the two men stared at each other, Ruth David finally spoke. ‘May I be permitted a word or two? First of all, the suggestion that someone might do this came from the Chief Constable, but I was the one who volunteered for the job. Secondly, I didn’t do it impetuously: I’ve thought out the odds. If your man was killing with a knife or a pistol, I wouldn’t be offering you my services. But he’s a strangler; possibly a rapist too, but even that now seems uncertain. I’ve got a brown belt for judo, and I hope to take the black before too long. I’d back myself against the Strangler.’ She allowed herself a tight little smile at her bravado, almost apologizing that she should put forward her virtues so immodestly. That was the attitude expected in this man’s world.
Lambert muttered, ‘I’m still not happy about it.’
Harding said, ‘Would you allow a man to take a calculated risk to try to catch this man?’
Lambert smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I would. Are you saying I’m being sexist?’
‘I’m saying my first thought was exactly the same as yours. That I had to convince myself that anyone, male or female, should take this kind of risk. But if we really think there are going to be more killings, we have to take a chance.’
Lambert said, ‘All right. But let’s discuss the details before we finally commit ourselves.’ He looked at the contrasting faces opposite him and said hastily, ‘I’d want to do the same if it was a man I was putting in.’
Ruth David grinned. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want to work for anyone who threw me in without calculating the odds. I thought about them carefully myself before offering my services.’ She could not tell them how she thought in bed at night about these women being killed, and no woman involved in the hunt for this madman: that romantic nonsense was no more objective than old soldier Lambert’s instinctive rejection of the idea that a woman should be involved. ‘I’m already a member of the Roosters, because I happen to be a football fan. They’ve got a good team, despite Charlie Kemp. But I’ve never let on there that I’m in the police: it’s not an occupation to win you friends among the regulars these days. And as I work in Bath, no one there has rumbled me.’
‘But are you –’ Lambert fumbled for words – ‘are you the kind of woman our man is going to go after?’
She
grinned at him, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Am I a Tom, you mean? No, not even on a part-time basis. Though Cambridge gave me the chance to build up a lucrative future clientele, if I’d been inclined. But with a new wardrobe and a bit of assistance with the right make-up, I can give a very good impression of a tart. Anyway, as I understand it, the Strangler might go for any unprotected woman. The first girl was raped and murdered, but she wasn’t on the game, was she?’
‘No. But there is a possibility that there might have been some kind of previous relationship with her killer. It’s a lead we’re working hard to follow up at the moment.’
The Chief Constable said, ‘Sergeant David has done a lot of acting in the past, John.’
‘But with due respect, amateur dramatics are hardly the preparation for playing games like this, sir.’ Lambert noticed how he brought out the ‘sirs’ only when he was uneasy. He knew now that he was going to accept this ploy, but he still wasn’t happy about it. He couldn’t see how he was going to protect this girl. She reminded him too much in her bright confidence of his own younger daughter, Jacqueline. ‘What exactly is it that you plan to do?’
Sergeant David looked at the Chief Constable and was given a brief nod of acquiescence. ‘Paul Williams of the drugs squad will be in the club at the same time as me. He won’t act unless there is an emergency, because it’s vital for his own investigation that his cover is preserved. I don’t think there will be any crisis at the Roosters. When our man strikes – and we aren’t even certain that he frequents the club – it will be when he has a girl on her own in some isolated situation, judging by the previous killings.’
Lambert nodded a reluctant agreement. ‘Williams could listen to the talk when you weren’t there. If they were suspicious of your new persona, he would be likely to pick up the talk.’ He realized as he voiced that thought that he had now acquiesced in the scheme.
‘Yes. He could report the reactions of the people in the club when I wasn’t there. They might be of considerable interest.’
‘He would also be the best test of whether your impersonation had been rumbled.’ Lambert turned to his Chief Constable. ‘I think we should try it. The only stipulation I would make is that I insist on withdrawing Sergeant David immediately if there is even a suggestion that her cover has been blown. There’s no guarantee that the Strangler would stick to his methods if he felt we were getting near to him.’
Harding nodded. ‘That is a rider I should have added myself. I think we should now put the scheme into action as quickly as possible.’
Lambert looked at the girl opposite him. Now that the scheme had finally been sanctioned, she was striving to conceal her excitement. For the first time since the idea had been broached, Ruth David felt nervous. But there was no trace of that in her voice as she said, ‘I’m ready to move into the Roosters tonight, sir.’
CHAPTER 17
Darren Pickering was at once bored and uneasy. The Roosters was quiet for a Saturday night, and those that had made the effort to come out were not doing much dancing.
Perhaps the Strangler and all the talk about him was having a dampening effect upon the club. No one had said officially that these murders centred upon the place, but the regulars, unconsciously in some cases, had divined it for themselves. There were fewer girls in than usual. People watched each other more closely, were quicker to take offence. The laughter, when it came, rang loud and self-conscious across the big room with its expanse of shining dance floor.
Darren lounged back between the wooden arms of his chair and surveyed his third pint of beer. He could not raise a lot of enthusiasm even for drinking tonight; he kept thinking of the way the police had questioned him about the death of Amy Coleford. Despite his professed contempt for them, he wished he could provide himself with an alibi for the time of that killing. But he knew very well that no one was going to come forward to say that they had seen him on his motorbike that night.
Beside him, Ben Dexter sipped his beer and studied his companion. He wondered how long it would be before Pickering relinquished his earring. He would tell him in a week or two that it would be a point of weakness in any street fighting When the new season got under way. All the signs were that there would be bigger crowds around, as Oldford made their bid to get into the league. The Strangler would give the team a certain abattoir glamour: he wondered if they could build him into some of their chants. There might be more murders before the season began: Ben Dexter smiled his secret, mirthless smile at the thought.
‘Useful bit of crumpet on the next table,’ he said to the doleful Pickering. ‘Might give her one myself, if she’s a good girl.’
Pickering wondered how much success Ben Dexter really had with women. He had not seen much public evidence to support his companion’s suggestions of his sexual successes. ‘She’s been in before, but she looks different tonight,’ said Darren. ‘More – more available.’
‘Big word for a young lad like you,’ said Dexter. He looked across at the long expanse of black nylon, stretching out to where the ankles crossed above red heels; Ruth David had decided that fishnet tights would be too abrupt a change from her previous hose. ‘If you mean she’s flashing her fanny and asking for it, you’re right.’ He stared appreciatively at the point where the black leather skirt creased over the transition from thigh to stomach.
‘Time you were putting it about again yourself, young Darren. Lack of oats is making you moody. You’re not the same man now that you’re not able to poke young Julie.’ He knew he was on dangerous ground, but as always he enjoyed the excitement of being close to danger. And he got a perverse satisfaction out of speech and attitudes much coarser than those of his lumpish companion.
‘I’ve told you before. Leave Julie out of your conversation!’ Pickering leaned across the table, and for a moment Dexter thought he was going to feel those large hands on his immaculate white shirt.
‘Steady on, old lad.’ He backed off quickly; then, when he saw Pickering relax, resumed his thesis in more general terms. ‘All I’m saying is, if the tarts are putting it about a bit, let’s have our share. Grab a handful of –’
‘Julie wasn’t a tart!’ Pickering’s eyes blazed with a righteous indignation that Dexter found wholly amusing.
‘I didn’t say she was, Darren. But it was you who told me she’d been playing away from home with an older man.’ His face was full of his appeal to reason, his mind full of malice.
‘Just shut up, can’t you? Leave Julie out.’ Darren was shouting now, full of the indignation of the inarticulate man who knows he is right but cannot find the words to justify himself. People on other tables around them were looking across to see what the disturbance was about.
Ben Dexter said, ‘Cool it, Darren. All I’m saying is, don’t waste opportunity when there’s skirt like this about.’ He gestured with his head towards the delights available on the adjacent table.
Ruth David, who was aware of his scrutiny but ostensibly concentrating upon her companions and her gin and tonic, uncrossed her ankles, studied the red toes of her shoes for a moment, and crossed her legs again at the knees. The Footlights had hardly prepared her for this. All acting was supposed to proceed from movement, she knew, but she found this role difficult without a script. She had never entertained any illusions that she could make a professional career on the stage, though a succession of moonstruck intellectuals at her ancient seat of learning had assured her breathily that she had the looks for it.
Calf-love, no more. She surveyed those two most desirable of her features and worked assiduously at the body-language which was the only script this part seemed to afford. Leaning back to make the most of breasts she had always considered small but beautifully rounded, she widened her green eyes interrogatively at Paul Williams.
The drug squad sergeant had had months to get inside his part. He stroked his stubble reflectively, then jerked his head wordlessly towards the dance floor. It was the kind of invitation which would have brought a sharp rebuke f
rom her normally. Now she ignored its presumption and rose with a grateful eagerness, tossing her halo of ash-blonde hair, parting eagerly the lips to which she had assiduously applied too much bright red lipstick in the cloakroom. Her acting was improving.
The dance floor was sparsely populated, but that suited her purpose. Williams danced with the glazed eyes of a man well dosed with pot, moving in time with the rhythm, but with the air of one cocooned in a dream-world of his own. He was watching the people he wanted to observe, the men who waited for their summons to the room of Charlie Kemp, but no one would have known it from his actions.
Opposite him but divorced from him, Ruth David did not indulge in violent movements. She swayed gently, with a reptilian sinuousness, as though the bones which supported her slim frame had become temporarily plastic. Her arms moved first one way and then the other in unison, the longest finger of her right hand touching the back of her left. Her head was thrown back, so that her hair dangled behind her, lit occasionally by the coloured overhead lights so that it looked like hair in some undersea grotto. The large green eyes were almost closed within their patches of eye-shadow, witchlike but infinitely desirable. The garish lips were slightly parted, the nostrils dilated as though she were aiming at a slow, infinitely prolonged orgasm.
She quite enjoyed the part, to the extent that she had to remind herself of the dangers it was deliberately courting. She wondered if she was overdoing things, but the faces around the dance floor told her that she was not. Men were credulous creatures at the best of times, so that fact might as well be used to advantage in this, the worst of times for women. They said that there was a touch of harlot in the make-up of every woman; well, she was allowing hers full rein tonight.
