A Wreath for my Sister

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘I only wish there was because he’s a dangerous character, Jo,’ Matthew warned. ‘Turned on by sex and violence. Be careful.’

  ‘I’ve always got Mike near by.’

  ‘Make sure you have.’

  He dried his hands on a paper towel. ‘Now, how about lunch?’

  She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. Report to Colclough then a visit to forty-five Jubilee Road.’ She held out her hand. ‘Bye.’

  It was the turn of the two older children to be miserable. Ryan, the baby, was happy now that Christine had found a suitable milk and cereal mix, and Christine’s seven-year-old daughter Sheila made a fine little mother. But Sharon’s two other children, October and William, were unconvinced and kept up their demands to know where their real mother was.

  ‘Where is she, Chris?’ This time it was October who was asking, her blue eyes wide and still innocent.

  Christine stared at her impatiently. ‘I don’t bloody know,’ she said, the first prickings of uneasiness starting to make her irritable.

  Sharon was a good mum. All right – the first night she might have been excited ... having a good time. Maybe she’d had too much to drink and was too pissed to drive home. But two nights had gone by now, and she hadn’t rung. For the thirtieth time Christine crossed the room to the telephone. Perhaps it was out of order. But the familiar burr of the dialling tone was loud. There was nothing wrong with her phone.

  William Priest had started whimpering. ‘Mummy ... Mummy,’ he kept saying. October’s eyes began to fill with tears and the pair of them wailed in unison.

  Chapter Four

  Joanna called to see Chief Superintendent Arthur Colclough as soon as she arrived back at the station. He was looking grim. The Super was a large man, overweight with big jowls and drooping cheeks that always reminded her of a Staffordshire bulldog. Years of eating the wrong food and sitting behind a desk had made his body cumbersome and sluggish. But his mind was clear and quick and Joanna was acutely aware that it was largely to the Super that she owed her position. She respected him. She also liked him.

  ‘Sit down, Piercy, and fill me in,’ he said.

  ‘The body of a young woman,’ she told him, ‘no more than thirty. A farmer found her lying on the moors, not far off the Buxton road, dressed for a night out.’

  He nodded. ‘How long had she been there?’

  ‘A couple of days, the pathologist said, and that matches up with the snow picture. It started on Tuesday night. Driving was difficult on the moors after about ten, according to the Met office ...’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Strangulation.’

  ‘When are we looking at?’

  ‘Some time late on Tuesday night,’ she said, and felt she needed to defend Matthew. ‘It was difficult for Dr Levin to be absolutely sure, because of the sub-zero conditions. But the farmer was positive she wasn’t there early on Tuesday evening.’ She stopped. ‘Besides, cars couldn’t get through from about midnight until the plough cleared the road early the next morning. The picture I have is of a date some time Tuesday evening. She was picked up, assaulted, murdered and her body dumped.’

  His eyes looked shrewd. ‘And what were the findings of the PM?’

  ‘She’d been garrotted,’ she said slowly. ‘A wire ligature that almost cut the neck, twisted with a length of sawn-off broomstick.’

  Arthur Colclough frowned. ‘Nasty,’ he said. The one word spoke reams.

  He looked at her. ‘You’ve samples?’

  ‘Raped first,’ she said quietly.

  ‘So it was sexual?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Colclough shifted his bulk in the chair. ‘Have you got any suspects, Piercy?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ll go round to her address this afternoon and set the wheels in motion.’

  ‘Fine. And make use of the PNC2. I want to know if it links up with any other killings or rapes, both in this area and around the country.’ He stopped. ‘If it isn’t a purely domestic business we’d better be very careful – don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He peered at her. ‘What’s your gut feeling, Piercy?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I can only say ...’

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  ‘I’m a bit uneasy,’ she finished. ‘Nothing in particular. It’s just it was a very professional killing.’ She met his eyes. ‘I think your idea might bear fruit, sir, though’ – she frowned – ‘I don’t recall anything like it.’

  He nodded.

  ‘There’s something else, sir. The fact that the girl was dressed up to go out. A red dress – cheap but smart – a lot of make-up, high-heeled shoes. I just wonder if she was set up, invited out.’

  ‘To be raped and then murdered?’ Colclough looked appalled.

  ‘It looks like it.’ And the mention of the shoes reminded her. ‘One of the shoes is missing. Korpanski is scouring the moors. But if we don’t find it there’s a possibility it’s been kept as a souvenir.’

  ‘Make that a priority, Piercy,’ he said. ‘Get the lads to scour that moor. If it’s found up there – well, that’s fine. But on the other hand ...’ His eyes were bright, ‘It could lead you right to his door.’

  And she agreed with him.

  His attention moved back to her. ‘You can have all the men you need, Piercy,’ he said. ‘All leave will be cancelled until you’ve got the killer.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Sure you can handle it?’

  ‘I’m happy – so far.’

  Colclough was watching her. ‘Do you have a name for this poor unfortunate?’

  She nodded. ‘Handbag found by the body. Credit cards, purse ... Her name, we think, was Sharon Priest. And we have an address – forty-five Jubilee Road. It’s a large council estate on the edge of the moor.’

  ‘So you’ll start your investigations there?’

  ‘Korpanski and I will go round this afternoon,’ she said, ‘look into her family, friends, boyfriends, husband, ex or current. I’ll get the uniformed lads to ask around the bars and pubs, find out where she was going dressed so smartly.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, but I think that’s enough to start with,’ she said. ‘Then there are the shoe shops, clothes shops. Her dress looked fairly new. And there’s her work – if she had a job.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ve got plenty to be getting on with, sir. I’ll probably link into the computer early this evening.’

  Colclough jerked his head towards the window.

  What’s going on on the moors?’

  ‘The usual, sir,’ she said. ‘Fingertip search and stop the motorists.’

  He stood up then, escorted her to the door. ‘Fine. You’re going to be busy.’

  She smiled and watched his eyes twinkle.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  The children had at last become absorbed in a Walt Disney video. Christine Rattle watched them, smoke curling from her mouth as she pondered what the hell to do with them. She didn’t have a key to Sharon’s front door and she needed clean clothes for October and Ryan. William was no problem. She had given him something of Tarquine’s to wear. She glanced across the road, wondering if she could get in through the back door, or if Sharon still kept a key under the flowerpot. The house was quiet, deserted, curtains drawn. And instinctively she knew it would not be Sharon who drew them back.

  As she watched, a police car slid to a halt outside and almost in a daze Christine knew it meant bad news. She picked up the baby, stuck him on her hip, opened the front door and crossed the road.

  Korpanski glowered at her. He hated sightseers. But Joanna stared. ‘Hi, Chris,’ she said.

  Christine looked at her and felt a stab of fear. She jerked her head towards the silent house. ‘What’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  Christine nodded at the baby on her hip. ‘Been mindin’ her kids,’ she said. ‘Now what’s goin’ on?’

&n
bsp; ‘Got a key, love?’

  Christine Rattle looked at the burly Detective Sergeant then she blinked. ‘She used to keep one under the flowerpot,’ she said. ‘What is goin’ on?’

  Joanna made her decision quickly. ‘You get inside, Mike,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to Christine.’

  Together they walked back, across the road, towards Christine’s house.

  The children were still absorbed in the cartoon characters. Christine plonked the baby between them and told them to ‘Mind ’im.’ Then she shut the connecting door firmly and sat down opposite Joanna in the kitchen.

  ‘Are you goin’ to tell me, then?’

  Christine was a thin woman with a hard face, premature lines, work-roughened bony hands and fuzzy, permed hair that lacked colour. But Joanna knew her well. She knew she was honest and punctilious and did a full day’s work that would put many men to shame. Somehow on her meagre wages she afforded decency, clothes for her children, heating and food. And the house, Joanna had noticed, was spotless.

  As was her own cottage ever since Christine had been coming round.

  ‘Did you know Sharon well?’ she began.

  But Christine was too quick for her. ‘What’s happened?’ she insisted.

  Joanna swallowed. ‘We’re not sure,’ she began.

  Christine looked fierce. ‘I was one of her best friends,’ she said. ‘I was mindin’ her kids for her. If anything’s happened I’ve got a right to be told.’

  ‘We’ve found the body of a woman.’

  Christine’s face grew blank and she glanced around the kitchen. ‘What about the kids?’

  Joanna reached out and touched her hand. ‘We aren’t sure yet that it is Sharon.’

  Christine looked at her dumbly.

  ‘A woman’s handbag was found on the moors,’ Joanna continued. ‘The contents suggest that it was Sharon Priest’s.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Near the handbag was the body.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Christine turned white. ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Slim, dyed auburn hair – thick, styled, back-combed. She was wearing a dark red dress ...’

  She didn’t need to say any more. Christine fumbled across the table for her bag, drew out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.

  Joanna stood up and filled the kettle. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, Chris,’ she said kindly.

  Christine Rattle was fighting back tears. She sniffed and then looked at Joanna. ‘What happened to her? Was it the snow?’

  Joanna shook her head.

  Christine stared at her. ‘When?’ she whispered.

  ‘We think it was late on Tuesday night.’

  Christine took a shaky drag from her cigarette. ‘She was on a date,’ she said. ‘She was going out with someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ she said, frowning. ‘It was a guy she met through the personal column.’

  ‘Had she been out with him before?’

  Christine bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said. ‘She hadn’t met him. He’d been writing her letters. It was her first date. That’s why I did her hair for her.’ She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘And she wore her best dress. He told her to wear it.’

  Joanna leaned forward. ‘He rang her?’

  Christine shook her head violently. ‘He wrote. They both did – used the box number.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘The Evening Standard.’

  The door opened and was quickly closed again, and Christine stared at Joanna. ‘What about the kids?’ she asked. ‘I can’t manage them. What’ll happen to them?’

  ‘Please ...’Joanna said, handing her a mug of strong, sweet tea. ‘Don’t worry. The Social Services can take over. Then usually relatives ...’

  Christine Rattle took a large sip of scalding tea. ‘Not her mum,’ she said. ‘She could never cope with Sharon’s three, especially Ryan. He’s just a baby. Maybe the other two, but Ryan — no way.’ She frowned. ‘Tell me. What happened?’

  ‘I can’t give you all the details,’ Joanna began, ‘but the woman we found was murdered.’

  Christine was staring at her through a wisp of blue cigarette smoke. ‘She was so excited,’ she said.

  Joanna’s mobile phone crackled. She answered it.

  ‘Car found. Green Fiesta,’ came the message. ‘Check registration. X – X-ray; W – Whisky; O – Oscar. 4-3-6 – W – Whisky. Repeat ... car park of the Quiet Woman ...’

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ she said, and, to Christine, ‘Was Sharon in her car on Tuesday night?’

  Christine nodded.

  ‘Registration?’ And Joanna read out the number plate she had written down during the phone call.

  Christine looked uncertain. ‘I can’t remember the number.’ Joanna relayed the details down the phone. ‘Check with Swansea.’

  ‘Already have. Registered owner Sharon Priest ... forty-five Jubilee Road ...’

  ‘Don’t touch the inside. Get it to forensics. And I’ll see you all later.’

  She turned her attention back to Christine. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘It was just a date,’ Christine said, pulling away at her cigarette as though it was her lifeline. ‘I told you. She hadn’t been out with him before. She was lonely. She’d been on her own with the children. She wanted some excitement.’

  She looked across the table at Joanna. ‘Why shouldn’t she have had some fun? She deserved it.’

  ‘No reason,’ Joanna soothed. ‘No reason at all, except I don’t call being killed fun, do you? And I know she didn’t deserve what happened to her.’

  Christine mopped her eyes again. ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She felt a lie was justified.

  Christine swallowed, tears flowing freely again. She sniffed and looked at Joanna. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘The scum. The dirty, rotten scum. I suppose he came over a bit strong and she resisted?’

  And again, although Joanna knew it had not been like that, she nodded.

  ‘Now tell me everything you know about the man she had a date with.’

  But Christine Rattle looked blank. ‘I didn’t know anything about him,’ she said.

  ‘Did you see a photograph?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, where did he live?’

  Christine looked panic-struck. ‘I don’t even know that. In his letters he just said it wasn’t far.’

  ‘But wasn’t there an address?’

  Blindly Christine shook her head again. ‘They wrote to box numbers, like I said.’

  Joanna felt frustrated. ‘You don’t know anything about him?’ she said incredulously.

  Christine shook her head for a third time.

  ‘Well, where had she arranged to meet him?’ Something like a dark, angry cloud crossed Christine’s face. ‘There’s not many decent blokes here in Leek,’ she said. ‘Sharon had had a couple of boyfriends. One was married. One was just no good. And her ex was violent. He’s been inside for ABH. So she put an advert in the paper, saying she wanted a good time. She had loads of replies.’ Christine sounded almost envious. ‘More than forty. Some of them sounded really nice. You know – decent and kind. And they didn’t mind about the kids at all. Some of them.’ She made an expression of extreme distaste. ‘But some of them – you could tell what they was after. One, he made a great thing about her wearing high-heeled shoes and glamour-girl stuff.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  Christine nodded.

  ‘Why did she pick out the one she met on Tuesday night?’

  ‘She said ...’ Christine gazed at the tip of ash glowing on the end of her cigarette. ‘She thought he sounded exciting.’

  ‘What do you mean, exciting?’

  ‘She said there was something about him – something mysterious. He said things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Christine looked embarrassed. ‘Things about how he fancied her a lot. She didn’t show me the lette
rs. She kept herself to herself. Anyway, she thought she’d go out with him first. After all,’ she said, dragging on another cigarette, ‘what’s the point of wasting your time with some old bugger if all the time Prince Charming’s waiting for you in the glass coach?’

  ‘Quite,’ Joanna said drily. ‘So what was the arrangement?’

  ‘They was meeting at the Quiet Woman. He told her to get there for eight and then they’d go on for a meal.’

  Joanna’s mind returned to the stomach contents spilled out at the post mortem. She hadn’t had that meal.

  ‘You last saw her when?’

  ‘About eight. She dropped the kids off at seven. I did her hair. She left at eight.’

  ‘Did she come back at all during the evening?’

  Christine slowly shook her head. ‘No. She didn’t. I know because I kept a watch on her house.’ She flushed. ‘I wasn’t being nosey, but I was itching to know who he was.’

  ‘So they were to meet at the Quiet Woman at eight?’ Christine nodded. ‘He said he’d come in for her.’ She looked as though suddenly struck by the thought. ‘Was it definitely him?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Joanna said, ‘but her car has been found at the Quiet Woman.’ She stood up. ‘Please, Christine,’ she said. ‘Think. Was there anything else about this man? Anything at all?’

  Christine blinked and stared ahead of her for a long tíme before speaking. ‘There was something funny,’ she said slowly. ‘There was. Me and Sharon,’ she licked her lips, ‘we got the feeling he already knew her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He said ... oh – I can’t remember the exact words. In one he said something about, about her dark hair – and looking stunning in red.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Christine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘But the weirdest thing was that he knew her name. When he wrote to her he said “Dear Sharon.” And he said she wouldn’t have to drive that battered old Fiesta for much longer.’ She watched Joanna carefully. ‘We thought it was funny at the time.’ She blinked back tears. ‘She said it made her feel a bit creepy – watched. You know. But she was still excited, though. She still wanted to meet him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joanna said. ‘I do know.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll need to sort something out for her children. How many are there?’