Cruel Justice

by M A Comley

  “No, can’t say I have. By all accounts, she’s meant to be a stunner.” The girl on the sofa coughed and Lampard corrected himself. “I mean, Wacko said she was really pretty.”

  Pete ignored the girl’s presence. “So, given the opportunity, you would’ve liked to have met her?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “With your penchant for pretty young girls—you know in your past.” He held up his file, and the man glared at him.

  “That’s just it—in the past. I ain’t done anything like that for years.”

  The girl jumped up from the sofa. “What did you do?”

  Lampard closed the gap between them and grabbed the top of her arms. “They’re winding you up, sweetheart. Ignore them. It’s just the police doing what they do best.”

  The girl looked at the two detectives, her eyes full of questions.

  Pete shrugged. “It’s up to him to tell you. Maybe it’d be better if you left us alone for a minute?”

  She tore herself from the man’s grip and ran from the room. They heard drawers banging, wardrobe doors slamming, and the girl cursing.

  “Thanks a lot, pal. What the fuck have I done wrong?”

  Lorne stepped in to calm things down. “Nothing. We’re investigating a murder. The girl Wacko should have picked up that night was found dead a few days later.”

  “Shit. You’re joking. But I don’t see—what the fuck has it to do with me?”

  “What my partner was trying to ask was, if you picked her up later? Or maybe you know if one of your colleagues picked her up?”

  “Like I said, as far as I can remember, it was busy that night. Wacko got shirty with us because no one was willing to pick her up. Hey, there was no need to drag up my past in front of Jemma.”

  Lorne gave him a hard stare. She didn’t like sex offenders, reformed or otherwise, but she tried to keep her distaste under wraps. “If you hear anything, give us a call.”

  Once outside, Pete said, “There’s more to that relationship than meets the eye.”

  “What relationship are you on about?”

  “Wacko and Kim Charlton, of course.”

  She flicked Pete a glance as they climbed into her Vectra. “Pete, you need to be a bit more careful about showing your feelings. You damn well made a difficult situation worse.”

  “I can’t help it when it comes to sex offenders—and I know you feel the same way. Did you happen to clock how old the girl was in there?” He angrily jerked his thumb behind him.

  “Yeah, I ‘happened to clock’ how old she was—well over the age of consent. There’s no point pissing people off unnecessarily. Just leave the questioning to me next time. All you seem to do is get their backs up before we’ve gained their confidence. That’s basic policing, Pete.”

  The air grew frosty again. That time, it was Pete’s turn to be in a mood.

  Lorne’s mobile rang, breaking the silence. “Yes, Tracy?”

  “Ma’am, a package arrived for you half an hour ago, and Mr. Greenaway is here to see you.”

  “Oliver Greenaway? What does he want?”

  “That’s right, ma’am. He wouldn’t say.”

  “What about the package—does it look suspicious?”

  “It’s a Jiffy bag, ma’am, addressed to you. Hand delivered, again. The desk sergeant discovered it a little while ago.”

  “We’re on our way. Show Oliver to the canteen, will you? We’ll be about twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wonder what he wants?” Pete said.

  “I don’t know, but remember: He’s off the list of suspects. Treat him like a normal human being when we get back, okay?”

  “Whatever. I’ll let you deal with him. I’ll see to the package.”

  “I’ll do both, if you don’t mind.” Her mind raced. If the package turned out to be yet another of the killer’s little party tricks, she’d need to get it over to Jacques straight away. Her heart rate spiked at the thought of seeing him again.

  “Hey, take it easy on the accelerator, boss. What’s the rush?”

  She eased off, but the tension remained—she was desperate to know what was in the package.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The A5 Jiffy bag was addressed in thick black marker to DI Lorne Simpkins.

  She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened it, tipping the contents carefully onto a piece of paper on her desk. Bubble wrap and a note fell out. The note read:

  HERE IS THE SECOND PART OF THE PUZZLE INSPECTOR. IS IT COMING TOGETHER YET?

  She tore open the bubble wrap. Inside was a blood-soaked tissue, and inside that was a severed nipple.

  “What the hell is that?” Pete looked confused and disgusted.

  She answered him in a whisper, “The only part of Kim Charlton that was missing…‌Her nipple.”

  “This guy gets frigging worse. What are you going to do with it?”

  “As soon as I’ve seen Oliver, I’ll take it over to Arnaud. He can analyse the note and the packaging. While I’m gone, see how the rest of the team got on this morning. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  She could tell by looking at him that her partner wasn’t happy about staying at the station, but that was tough.

  Lorne left the incident room and went down to meet Oliver Greenaway in the reception area. She shook his hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Oliver.”

  He smiled and seemed pleased to see her. “Inspector, nice to see you again. I didn’t mean to turn up unannounced. I was in the area and wanted to see if you’d made any progress with the case?”

  “I’m glad you’re here, actually, I was going to contact you later. There’s something important I need to tell you. It’s not pleasant, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re worrying me. Has something else happened to my family?”

  “No, nothing like that. Yesterday, the killer made contact with me.” Lorne paused, unsure how to continue.

  “Go on.”

  “I received a large box. Inside the box was…” Her mouth dried up, and she called over to the girl serving in the canteen to fetch her a glass of water.

  “Inspector, please go on.”

  The girl arrived, and Lorne took a large swig of water. “Inside the box was your mother’s head.”

  He buried his head in his hands. “My God. What type of sick individual…?” Anger replaced his shock. “Was there a note, a postmark, anything that can be traced?”

  “There was a note. You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. We have to keep it out of the media. Otherwise, we’ll receive hundreds of crank calls, and it’ll slow down our progress.”

  “Of course I promise. What did it say?”

  “It referred to a missing part of a puzzle.”

  “Have there been other murders, apart from my mother and my aunt?”

  “Yes, a sixteen-year-old girl. I just received a second parcel with another note,” Lorne confided. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she felt he had a right to know.

  “You’ve received nothing from my aunt’s murder, no parcel or note, I mean?”

  “Nothing, but I’m not expecting anything. Don’t forget, uniformed police disturbed the killer before he could take anything.”

  “Who’s your main suspect, apart from me?”

  “You’re not a suspect, Oliver. I never thought you could do that to your own mother or aunt.”

  “Unlike your partner.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Lorne said nothing to that. She didn’t want to criticise her partner in front of Greenaway.

  “We haven’t got any clear suspects at the moment, but the ‘probable’ list is growing daily. As soon as we have a suspect in custody, you’ll be the first to know, I assure you.”

  “Thank you. Look, the reason I’m here is, we’re having a double funeral at St Saviour’s church tomorrow. I thought you might like to attend. It seems pretty ironic, to be burying them on the same day, after they came into the
world together. Do you think Mum will be buried…‌um…‌intact? Whole?”

  “I’m going over to the mortuary now. I’ll make sure that happens, Oliver. Don’t worry about that. What time is the service tomorrow?”

  “Eleven. A wake is being held afterwards at the Thornton Hotel. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll be able to attend the wake, but I’ll definitely be there for the funeral. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” Lorne smiled at him.

  The slow-moving traffic infuriated Lorne as she made her way across town. Was she really that desperate to get to the mortuary? Who in their right mind would be in a hurry to get to such a depressing place? Unless, of course, you had a rendezvous with someone interesting who worked there.

  It was three twenty when she arrived. Lorne watched Jacques through the porthole of the post-mortem suite for a few minutes before she knocked on the door.

  He smiled and seemed surprised to see her, then mouthed that she should wait in his office. Holding up a gloved hand covered in blood, he signalled he’d be five to ten minutes.

  Jacques walked into his office some minutes later. He’d replaced his surgeon gowns with smart black trousers and a caramel-coloured jumper that screamed, I know what I’m doing, as far as fashion is concerned.

  Her heart flipped a somersault when he approached her and planted a tender kiss on both cheeks.

  “I see my charms are irresistible to you, Lorne, that you can’t stay away,” he teased. His smile deepened when a flush of colour worked its way up her neck and settled in her cheeks.

  “That’s the trouble with arrogant French men—they think all women find them irresistible.” She was happy to flirt with him, but her tone gave away that something was wrong.

  He picked up on her mood in a flash. “Come. Sit down. Joking aside, I can tell when something is wrong.” He removed her coat, and she tensed at his closeness.

  “Oliver Greenaway came to see me. It’s his mother and aunt’s funeral tomorrow. I told him I’d make sure his mother was…‌umm…‌put back together again, if you like.”

  “Of course, I will ensure that happens. Is that all that is bothering you, because you could have told me that over the phone. Also, that is the general procedure, anyway.”

  She placed the Jiffy bag on the desk. “You might want to put your gloves on before you open it.”

  “Another package from the killer, I take it?”

  “I suspect the contents belong to Kim Charlton, but I’d like you to verify it for me, if you would?”

  Jacques looked inside. “Why do you think he might be taking parts of the bodies and sending them to you?”

  “I thought about that on my way over here. Trophies?”

  “Peut-être, maybe. But in my experience, when murderers take trophies from their victims, they usually keep the trophies tucked away in a drawer.” He examined the nipple. “I’ll get it tested; perhaps there will be some trace evidence on it that can help us build a case against this vile person. I’ll be right back.”

  He took the package to a colleague. Tiredness swept over her. She rested her head on the desk and began to drift off. She almost jumped out of her seat when she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders.

  “Relax. You are so very tense. Does your neck still hurt as bad as it did this morning?” His voice was as caressing as his hands.

  “To be honest, I haven’t had much time to think about it. Ouch! Yes, it does.”

  “Of course, a proper massage is much better when the person in need of it is naked.”

  His words tormented her, and his accent affected her in ways she found impossible to explain. She tried to break free from his grasp, but he was determined to finish what he’d started. It was useless to try to fight him—the moment she gave in to his powers of persuasion, she felt the knots untangling under his warm, experienced hands.

  An unexpected moan of pleasure escaped her lips, startling her.

  The spell was broken when the phone rang. He muttered something unintelligible and unrecognisable in his native tongue.

  With the moment lost, Lorne hurtled back to reality with the speed of a spaceship re-entering Earth’s atmosphere. While he was distracted with his call, she dashed to the coat stand to retrieve her coat. She glanced up. Feeling embarrassed, she ran from his office. She would ring him later to apologise. Confusion filled her every pore. She didn’t want to run from him—it wasn’t in her make-up to run scared. But then, neither was cheating on her husband.

  She drove back to the station, trying not to replay the way she’d felt when his hands were on her.

  The incident room fell silent when she walked in.

  “The killer’s been in touch again,” Pete announced.

  She shrugged out of her coat. “What did he say?”

  “He wouldn’t speak to anyone. Got annoyed when you weren’t here.”

  “Did you tell him to call back?”

  “I didn’t get a chance. The woman was with him, though. The last call he made, he terrified her. She screamed, and then there was silence. I think he killed her, boss.”

  Lorne collapsed into a nearby chair. Am I the reason he killed her? If she’s dead, just because I wasn’t around? The sick shit! Is this personal? Do I know him?

  Lorne coughed to clear her throat. “Are the uniforms still down at the allotment?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tracy responded.

  “Call them off. You and Mitch get down there. Park your car a couple of roads away and position yourselves near the shed, just in case he decides to use it again.”

  “We’ll get down there right away, ma’am,” Tracy said.

  “You okay, boss?” Pete perched a buttock on the desk beside her.

  “To be honest, Pete, I feel as though someone’s just kicked me in the guts. I should’ve been here. Maybe it would have prolonged her life. What time did the last call come in?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. You can’t go blaming yourself for this.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “No, you bloody can’t. If the sick bastard is going to kill someone, it makes no odds if you’re around to take his call or not.” Pete walked over to the vending machine to get her a cup of coffee.

  “Did anything come to light while I was out?” Lorne asked, trying to pull herself together.

  “Molly called into the council. According to their records, there’re two roads around the railway line where the houses have cellars large enough to stand up in.” He pulled out the map and pointed out the two roads. “Clearmont Road, which is here, and Lehman Avenue, which is tucked away over here.”

  “Pass me the files of the taxi drivers, will you?”

  Pete handed her the files and continued with his update. “Molly also dropped by the agency—you know, the one that employs Mr. and Mrs. Hall? She did well, getting the information out of the woman. Apparently, it turns out that before working for the Greenaways, they worked for a posh family in Harrow—the Mountbattens. The husband used to work away a lot—some kind of explorer, I think. Anyway, Mrs. Mountbatten became reliant on Mr. Hall, but one day he overstepped the mark and tried to kiss her. She threatened to call the police if they didn’t resign and vacate their flat. They started at the Greenaways not long after.”

  Lorne’s head stopped spinning, and her thoughts began to function properly. “Why did the agency keep them on their books?”

  “The woman told Molly that because the Mountbattens hadn’t filed a formal complaint or brought the police in, it would’ve been prejudiced not to offer the couple another position. They’ve behaved themselves ever since.”

  “Oliver told me the funeral of his mother and aunt are taking place tomorrow. I said we’d go. The Halls should be there; we can ask them a few questions then. But I think it’ll prove to be a waste of time.”

  “I don’t know. They had the opportunity to do a
way with Belinda. It’s just a matter of motive.”

  “But what about her sister—and, of course, there’s Kim Charlton to consider. It’s obvious the crimes are linked because of the same MO. So how would Hall get to them?” Lorne frowned, and leafed through the files he’d given her.

  “Well he must’ve known Doreen and where she lived, but like you say, what’s the connection with Kim? How does she fit in?”

  The phone rang. Lorne checked the technician was ready to trace the call before she answered.

  “Hello. DI Simpkins. How can I help you?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, is anybody there?” Lorne listened carefully, trying to pick up on any background noise. She heard the shuffling of feet and heavy breathing.

  “Hello?” she prompted again, then more softly, continued, “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

  A muffled voice replied, “You should’ve been there. You could’ve saved her.”

  Lorne closed her eyes. She wanted to shout and scream at the caller, but she needed to restrain herself. It was important to play things his way, to gain the killer’s trust.

  “I was on an errand. I can’t be here all the time, waiting for your call.”

  “Didn’t you spend enough time with him last night?”

  Lorne’s eyes flew open and found Pete’s gaze. He raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged, pretending she didn’t know what the killer was referring to.

  “Ah, silence, a sign of guilt. I was watching you flirt. Is it his French accent that you admire, Inspector?”

  “What have you done with the woman?” Lorne asked, a tremor to her voice. The bastard had been watching her. Thank God Jacques had spent the night with her. If she’d been alone, she might not be alive.

  “Does his accent turn you on, Lorne?” the killer asked, determined to keep the conversation going the way he intended, not her.

  Pete’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Don’t answer. Ask about the woman,” he mouthed.

  “Can I speak to the woman?”

  The killer’s breath came in short bursts as he became more annoyed with Lorne avoiding his questions.

  “No, she’s gone. I disposed of the body when you weren’t there to take my call. You made me angry, Inspector. So very, very angry.”