by M A Comley
“Pete, get in here, now,” Lorne screeched, cupping her hand over the phone.
Seconds later, Pete rushed into the office. “What’s up?”
“Get the nearest Panda car over to Doreen’s immediately—she’s being attacked. Go! Do it, now!” Please God, keep her safe until we get there.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lorne felt sick to her stomach. There was silence on the other end of the line. No more begging. No more tormented screams. Nothing.
Realisation hit home—she’d heard Doreen’s last pitiful moments on this earth.
“They’re on their way, ETA five minutes, they reckon,” Pete said, as he returned to her office.
Lorne dropped the phone and threw herself into her chair, shaking her head slowly she whispered, “It’s too late, Pete. I’m sure she’s dead.”
“Shit, and you heard the whole damn thing?”
“Every last fucking torturous detail.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be all right. We better get over there.”
Obviously, despite Pete’s warning, Lorne had broken all the ground rules and become emotionally involved with Doreen Nicholls. It was something she had never experienced before. She would have to dig deep into her resolve, and quickly. They had a killer to catch. Come on, girl. Pull yourself together, quick smart.
“We’ll go over there all right, but I’ll drive, and we go in my car.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m in no mood to argue with you. As long as we get there in one piece, I really couldn’t give a shit who drives.”
“I’ll bring the car round. See you outside.”
Lorne took three deep calming breaths and pronounced herself ready for action. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, shaking her arms out in front of her. She headed for the entrance and jumped into the ‘Sherman tank’ a few minutes later.
“What the fuck happened? What did you hear?” her partner shouted above the noisy engine.
“Doreen was asking me—”
“You’ll have to speak up, boss. You’re mumbling.”
“I am not. It’s this pathetic heap of yours. Are you sure you didn’t get it out of a war museum? I’m sure I’ve seen it in an old Pathé News clip.”
“Ha bloody ha. You were saying?”
“I was saying that Doreen was asking me how the investigation was going, when her doorbell rang.”
“But her place is as secure as the Tower of London. How on earth did the bastard manage to get past three bolts and a security chain?”
“She thought Colleen might have forgotten her key—she’d just popped out to do some shopping. I suppose Doreen forgot to put the chain back on after she left. I heard the front door burst open. It banged against the wall—the force probably knocked her off balance.”
“I better put my foot down. We don’t want Colleen finding her mother like that.” Pete managed to reach sixty on the speedometer before the car started to shudder violently.
Far from amused, Lorne clung to the passenger seat as if her life depended on it. “Jesus, Pete, this piece of shit belongs in a scrapyard. Slow down, will you? Unless you’re planning to beat Doreen to the mortuary.”
He eased the car back to forty, and they continued the rest of the journey in silence.
They walked up the path of the dead woman’s house. Two uniformed police stood guard outside the front door.
“You stay here for a few minutes. I want to see Doreen by myself,” Lorne said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss.”
“It wasn’t a request, Pete.”
“Make sure you don’t disturb anything, boss,” he called after her.
“Pete,” she warned.
The entrance hall was like a scene from a macabre low budget film set, only it was no movie. Doreen lay in a pool of blood, one hand over her chest, the other above her head. Her neck looked broken. Her face was unrecognisable; her left cheekbone protruded through her skin. Blood spattered the walls, the floor, the furniture—even the ceiling.
Lorne walked gingerly past Doreen’s battered body, avoiding the bloodstains on the carpet, taking a new pair of latex gloves from her handbag. Pulling on the gloves, she walked over to the hall table and put the phone back in its cradle, putting an end to the high-pitch tone hindering her concentration. At the back of the phone, she noticed a few unpaid bills, a business card for a taxi firm—obviously used by Doreen, as she didn’t have a car—and the woman’s post office savings book. Surely, if the suspect’s intention had been to rob, wouldn’t he have taken her savings book with him?
Returning to the body, she systematically ran her eyes over the lifeless frame. She swallowed back the lump that had formed in her throat and noticed the old woman’s knickers had been pulled down to her ankles. Bending down, she raised the hem of the woman’s woollen A-line skirt and was sickened by what she saw.
Jesus Christ. What kind of sick piece of shit are we dealing with?
There, between the woman’s legs, was a hand broom, the handle of which had been impaled in her vagina.
A woman’s scream halted any further assessment.
Shit, Colleen.
Rushing from the house, she found Pete trying his best to restrain the sobbing woman, whose numerous shopping bags lay scattered at their feet.
Pete stood back as Lorne grabbed Colleen by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Colleen. We got here as soon as we could, but it was too late to save her.”
“You mean…She’s dead?”
Lorne nodded slowly, and the woman fell to her knees, taking Lorne with her. Colleen screamed, shouted, and finally sobbed as Lorne held her tight, fighting to control her own tears.
One of Doreen’s neighbours came over and offered to make Colleen a cup of tea, and once Lorne had settled Colleen at her mum’s neighbour’s house, she rang the devastated woman’s husband at work.
The forensic team arrived a few minutes later. Arnaud was with them.
“I see that protecting the sister wasn’t high up on your list of priorities, Detective Inspector Simpkins,” Arnaud said, when she arrived back at the crime scene.
Lorne found his observation offensive, and it was hard to resist the temptation to swipe the smug grin off his face. Forget it, Lorne. He’s not worth it. “For your information, Doctor, it’s not the force’s policy to protect the family members of a homicide victim. If we did, we wouldn’t have enough officers to catch the bastards who carry out crimes like this, would we?”
He grunted a response and proceeded with his examination, while Lorne stepped outside to find Pete. “Did the guys see anything when they arrived?”
“When they got here, the door was wide open, and Doreen was already dead.”
“They didn’t go in the house, did they?”
“No, they said it was obvious she was dead and thought it best not to tamper with anything, unlike someone I could mention.”
“All right, Pete. You’ve made your point. Her neck was broken, and he knocked seven bells of shit out of her. Look, Colleen’s husband is on the way. In the meantime, I suggest we knock on a few doors—see if anyone heard or saw anything.”
“They’re retirement bungalows, so we might be lucky. I’ll take the houses on this side of the road, if you like.”
Five minutes later, a car screeched to a halt outside Doreen’s house. A man in a suit slammed the driver’s door shut and headed up the path, but the two officers stood their ground and refused him entry.
Lorne guessed who the visitor was. “Mr. Shaw?”
The man looked disoriented as he turned. “That’s right. Where’s my wife?” His hair stood on end as though he had been running his hands through it, and his pink striped tie hung low around his neck.
“I’ll take you to her.”
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, as he followed Lorne to the neighbour’s bungalow.
“We’re not sure. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
�
�Why? Why did this happen? Why wasn’t she protected after what happened to Belinda?”
“We had no reason to suspect she was in danger. As far as we were concerned, Belinda’s murder was a one-off, a random killing.”
“I’m not trying to tell you your job, Inspector, but I think that assumption can be put to bed now, don’t you?”
“I’ll need to ask you and Colleen some questions. When do you think you’ll both be up to it?”
“How long does grief usually take to get over, Inspector—a year, maybe two?”
“I know this isn’t easy, Mr. Shaw, but please don’t make our job any harder than it has to be. The sooner we talk, the quicker we can catch the one who did this.”
“It would be better if we left the interrogation until tomorrow—providing, of course, that Colleen is up to it then,” he snapped.
“I’ll give you a call in the morning.”
“You do that, Inspector.”
Lorne walked back to Pete’s car, a feeling of helplessness draped around her aching shoulders. Should she have protected Doreen more? In the last half hour, two people had told her she should have. Guilt replaced the helplessness as she mentally pictured the fear Doreen must have experienced during the attack.
“I take it the husband didn’t take the news too well, then?” Pete asked as he returned to the car and stood alongside her.
“He blames me.”
“For what?”
“He has a point. I should have asked a uniform to check on the area every half hour. It would have served as a deterrent.”
“You’re being hard on yourself. Can we start looking in Oliver’s direction now?”
“Why are you so damn suspicious of him, Pete?”
“You know what they say: Before looking at the outlaws, you have to look at the in-laws.”
“Do you take pleasure in repeating yourself?”
“No, but you have to admit it makes sense, boss. At least seventy per cent of homicides are committed by friends or relatives of a victim.”
He had a point, although he would have to come up with an astonishing motive before she suspected Oliver of not only murdering his own mother, but his aunt too.
“Do me a favour, Pete. Ask the Doc when the PM is likely to be. I don’t think I could face any more of his odious comments at the moment.”
By the time he returned, Lorne had belted herself into his tank. “He reckons he’s gonna be another three or four hours here. Says he’s found quite a lot of trace evidence already. Looks like another late night down at the mortuary.”
“Let’s get back to base, see what progress the team has made.”
“Did the neighbours come up with anything?” Pete asked.
“The old man at number seven saw a man approaching Doreen’s door, but he didn’t get a good look at him. He’d heard her nephew was in town and presumed he was paying her a visit.”
“Perhaps it was. How come he didn’t mention it to the boys in blue?” Pete replied.
“Because he couldn’t give any details; didn’t even notice what colour his hair was.”
“Great. He eyeballs a fucking murderer and can’t give us jackshit. What hope have we got of finding the creep?”
“It’s called old age.”
“Promise me one thing, boss?”
“What’s that, Pete?”
“That you’ll shoot me if I ever lose my marbles like that.”
She nodded her agreement.
The chief was waiting for them when they entered the incident room. The phones were quieter than when they’d left.
“Lorne, Pete, where are we up to?” the chief asked, perching on the edge of Pete’s desk.
“We think Doreen was killed by the same person. Looks like the same modus operandi.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Nothing worth chasing. Doctor Arnaud says his team have found quite a lot of trace evidence at the scene, which looks promising.”
“Do you have any suspects?” the chief asked.
“I reckon we should start digging deep into the son’s background,” Pete piped up before Lorne had a chance to reply.
“Why’s that, Pete?”
“There’s something about him that don’t quite ring true, Chief.”
“Are you of the same opinion, Lorne?”
“No, I’m afraid Pete’s on his own with that one.”
“If suspects are thin on the ground, I’m afraid I’m with Pete: You should start looking at the son. What about her will? Do we know whom she left her money to? If the son was the sole beneficiary, it could be a motive. I’ll leave it with you; keep me informed.” He left the room looking worried, his shoulders slumped as if he had a colossal weight on them.
Lorne watched him go with an odd ache in her heart. Then she slowly turned back to Pete and gave him a thunderous look. “Don’t think you just got the better of me, Pete Childs. I’m neither in the mood nor the right frame of mind to argue with you at the moment. Get in touch with Belinda’s solicitor. Delve into Oliver’s personal and working life.”
While Pete began his mission, Lorne set out on one of her own. Beginning with Tracy, she made her way round her team, gathering any snippets of information they had collected while she’d been out.
“Can I have a quick word, ma’am?” Tracy asked.
“Sure, what’s up?” she smiled reassuringly at the young woman she regarded as her protégée.
“I received a letter from Head Office this morning.”
“You did, did you? Well, tell me more.” Lorne pulled up a chair and positioned it next to Tracy’s desk.
“They’re encouraging new recruits to enrol in a forensic course they’re introducing.”
“Sounds intriguing. What’s involved?”
“It would mean losing me from the office for one day a week, a total of eight weeks.” Tracy winced and waited, as though expecting Lorne to explode.
“I don’t see a problem with that. Perhaps you could make notes and fill the rest of us in when you get back. Forensics is a vital part of the investigation process, nowadays—it’s hard to keep up with all the new procedures. Will you be attending a post-mortem?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“So what will the course entail?”
“Each week a different specialist will be giving a talk. We’ll be looking at ballistics, scene analysis, fingerprinting, toxicology, things like that.”
Lorne could see the enthusiasm in Tracy’s eyes and would’ve found it hard to deny her the opportunity, even if she hadn’t already given her the go-ahead to attend the course.
“You could give me a few pointers on the poison front. It might come in handy, for a few members of the staff,” she whispered straight-faced, but when the younger woman’s mouth flew open and her eyes nearly burst free of their sockets, Lorne laughed. “It was a joke, Tracy. Guess you haven’t been privy to my wicked sense of humour yet. Mind you, if you listen to Pete, he’ll tell you I had a humour transplant years ago.”
The pair laughed, and the rest of the team looked their way.
“Keep them guessing,” Lorne whispered behind her hand as she went on to the next member of her team.
A short time later, Lorne had jotted down all the relevant information they had gathered and transferred it to the notice board. Ten different vehicles, three men that no one could put a name to—clues were agonisingly thin on the ground.
Maybe Pete has a point about Oliver, after all?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The man burst through his front door and shut out the crazy world behind him. His clothes were spattered with blood, and his neck covered in scratches. Leaning against the front door, he panted breathlessly as he waited for his heart rate to return to normal.
Banging noises and cries for help echoed through the house. He raised his eyes to the ceiling when he realised the soundproofing in the cellar would need his attention, sooner rather than later.
“Well, how did it go?” The wo
man rushed towards him.
“I got her, this time. She won’t be hurting anyone else again.”
“I’ve had a hell of a time with that one down there.”
“I’ll get rid of her after I’ve had some dinner, I promise.” The man smiled down at the woman, hugged her lovingly then kissed her on the forehead.
“I’ve made your favourite, roast lamb—it’ll be ready in ten minutes. Why don’t you get cleaned up, and we’ll open a bottle of wine to celebrate?” the woman replied.
They sat down to eat. Incessant crying spoilt their meal.
“Damn it. I’ve had enough of her!” he said.
While the woman took their dirty dishes to the kitchen, he tore back the rug and angrily ripped open the trap door. The girl stopped crying instantly. He climbed down the rickety ladder and watched her tremble as he approached.
“Please, please not again. I promise to be quiet. Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”
“Ah, but you did, didn’t you? You’ll be free soon,” he assured her.
The girl wrapped her arms around her knees, hiding her nakedness from his intimidating gaze.
She sobbed again, and he towered over her like a vulture ready to swoop. He bent down beside her, stroked her hair as if she was his pet dog, then his hand began its journey. Starting on her cheek, his fingers outlined her lips, down past her throat, lingering on her arm before finally caressing her shapely thigh. “Shh. There, there. It’s all right.”
As he reached to undo his belt, she screamed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doreen Nicholls’ post-mortem drew to a close at one in the morning.
“Therefore, I conclude that the cause of death was due to a fatal blow to the head,” Arnaud finished, before turning off his recorder.
“Poor Doreen.” Lorne watched Bones stitch up the Y-section to the woman’s lifeless body. It was hard to find a reason why someone would despise Doreen so much as to want her dead. As post-mortems went, this had been her toughest yet. But Lorne had insisted that she needed to be involved, feeling she owed the dead woman that much.
