Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  Deodorant. The first odour. That high profile under arm and all-over brand advertised on the TV and in men’s magazines. The one that was supposed to have women drooling in numbers and falling at men’s feet, the one that men supposedly couldn’t live without, the one that bestowed on all men a magnetic attraction, no matter how ugly, no matter how old, no matter how fat, no matter how cold.

  It didn’t attract her. Not one tiny bit.

  Aftershave. Odour number two. Another big brand that came at a hefty price. The same brand that Gareth the solicitor soaked himself in, imagining that it would make him more attractive to women, and in a way it did, for no woman wants a sour smelling man. But you can have too much of a good thing, and in common with many men, he always used far too much of it.

  Bel stood quite still outside her bedroom door. She reached out to touch it, but it wasn’t there, not where it would have been if it were anywhere near closed. It was open, at least half way open, and that was precisely as she expected.

  The third odour was there too.

  The stink of a nervous man.

  Not body odour per se, but that indefinable reek that a jumpy male exudes. They probably don’t even know they are exuding, their pores busy expelling surplus natural perfume. He almost certainly didn’t, and that aroma of man hadn’t been present in her bedroom since Gareth had done damned things in there that he probably shouldn’t have, and if that wasn’t enough proof for her, there was now the icing on the cake.

  She could hear him, breathing.

  Even though he was trying hard to hold his breath, even though he was standing stock still, even though he was doing his best to keep his heart rate under control, and his body functions neutral, she could hear him operating in the darkness, like the complicated and amazing machine that he was.

  Bits moving in and out. Air flowing through the gears. Liquid rushing round the pipes. Electricity running through the brain. Fuel digesting in the fires of his stomach, bones readying to move, like some giant locomotive. They all make noise, no matter how softly or how stunted, no matter how disguised or cloaked. She could hear his systems working hard, on slowdown maybe, but there, nonetheless, excited, readying themselves. The only thing her hyper senses didn’t tell her was where precisely in the bedroom he was.

  The door was hinged on the left-hand side. It was a new door, one of the few things that she had allowed to be tampered with, for the original high waisted doors had buckled over time, and would no longer close properly. She had replaced all four of them a year before with modern white panelled models.

  She put herself in his position. Where would she be? Where would she hide? Where would she place herself for maximum safety and protection, and the greatest surprise? It had to be behind the door. Where else would anyone wait in ambush?

  She flared her nostrils and allowed clean air to circulate in. The same three odours were still present, one-two-three, all quite separate, all quite distinct, yet all combined into one positive trail, telling her that her quarry was not moving, not coiled and about to spring out, but waiting for an opportune moment, biding his time, waiting for her to make her move, waiting for her to blindly enter the room when he could attack, or bolt for freedom, like a startled fox driven from its lair.

  Bel nodded to herself in the certainty of her logic, and envisaged precisely what was about to happen. She made her move. She gently pulled the bat back the last few inches to the very top of the back swing, as the golf coaches like to say, the highest point, the point of no return, the zenith, the point from where all future movement and momentum and force is down, and across, and forwards, and on, smashing into the target.

  In the blackness she stepped quickly into her bedroom, and unleashed a single blow, the likes of which would have brought down a lion. The trajectory went around the edge of the door, and behind the door, and struck viciously to precisely where she saw in her mind he was cowering, striking down the triple-odoured man who had invaded her house, and her space, and her bedroom, and her quiet life.

  The bat kept on going, Bel still clinging onto the handle, though it almost slipped from her grasp. It slammed into the primrose painted plaster, making a large indentation, a fingerprint from the bat itself, onto and into the wall. He had not been cowering behind the door, and in that millisecond of recognition she realised that she was in deep trouble, for she’d given her position away, enabling the man to pounce.

  He was immediately on her, behind her. Grabbing the bat at both ends through gloved hands. He was clever, that was clear. He’d done his envisaging well. He’d out thought her, this time, and he was strong. Incredibly strong.

  ‘What are you fucking doing?’ she screamed.

  It was a total waste of breath and vital energy, and worse still, thinking time. He didn’t reply, not a word, but pulled the bat back, hard and true, against her slim throat, pinning her to him, her back to his toned chest. She tried to get her hands and arms up between the bat and her throat, but had missed her opportunity.

  She was young-ish and fit-ish and would not go down without a fight. She tried to kick him with her heels, but soft slip-on slippers were never going to bother him. Where were her stilettos when she needed them? If only she had slipped them on, the ones with the tall slimline metal heels. They could have done real damage. She tried to wriggle free, feinting one way, to the left, only to switch all her strength and energy back immediately to the right, but again he appeared to read her every move. He held her fast.

  She tried to turn her head around to face him in the darkness, from where she could perhaps reach up and bite him, and if nothing else, the restraining wood of the timber would be less of a threat on the back of her neck than on her naked throat, but again he sensed her line of thinking. And he was strong, so very strong. He held her still. Looking away from him, though she could not see a thing. It was as if the hunting cat playing with the tiny mouse had enjoyed its fun, and now it was time for the denouement. He snapped the baseball bat back towards him with all the strength he possessed.

  It was more than enough.

  Way more than enough.

  He broke two vertebrae as if they were seasoned twigs. He’d broken her neck. Human beings rarely survive a broken neck without immediate and knowledgeable assistance. Thirty-six year old Belinda Cooper would receive neither.

  The invader sniffed and tossed the timber bat onto the double bed. He thought of turning on the light, but didn’t wish to imprint on his brain the scene that he alone had created. He clapped his gloved hands gently together as if in triumph, and left the room. Ambled down the stairs and into the drawing room. Went to the double French doors, opened them, and stepped outside. It wasn’t raining any longer. He turned around and locked the doors, and tossed the key through the broken pane, and across the room. It fell to the carpet with the tiniest of thuds, bouncing once.

  He grinned to himself. Walked around the side of the house. Opened and closed the tall timber side gate. Ambled out onto the pavement as if he owned the place. Glanced at his watch. The neon hands told him it was twenty to one. Peered up and down the road and glanced at the sky. The thick clouds were finally breaking up. A hint of moonlight filled the sky. There was no one about. No late night dog walkers, no courting couples, no moving cars in the road, no revellers making their way home after a night on the town, not even a shifty burglar looking for an easy and unguarded and unprotected home.

  He made his way to the end of the road. The orange sodium streetlights were popping out. Chester Council cost cutting measures darkening the area. He smiled to himself. It had been an exciting evening. Better than last time, for sure, and now it was finished. All over. He’d never do anything like that again. That was something. That was the plan. He walked for ten minutes through suburbia, back to the Cayton Cerisa that was obediently waiting for him, parked up by the canal.

  He opened the car and removed the two large pebbles he had carefully set on the front passenger seat. Took off the gloves, inserted a pebbl
e in each, crossed the road to the canal, bent down as if to tie his shoes, and gently dropped both heavy gloves into the murky water. A nearby coot cooed three times at being disturbed. The gloves sank to the bottom and nestled into the cold mud. No one would ever look for them. No one would ever think to. He re-crossed the road, jumped in the car, started the quiet and silky engine, and purred away on the fifteen-minute trip home.

  What a stupid woman she was, he thought, on reflection, to imagine that she could outfox him, and out-fight him. It had come as something of a surprise, her resistance. Courageous though, you had to give her that. He shook his head and banished all thoughts of the evening from his mind. He would try never to think of it, and of her, ever again. He was strong, very strong, in mind and body, and he knew it too, in the prime of his life, and it would carry him through. Always.

  Thirteen

  Karen usually slept soundly, but that night sleep would not come. She tossed and turned and glanced at the clock several times as if to check it was time to rise and dress. By 6am she’d had enough. Slipped from the bed and went into the shower. Let the water run very hot and then icy cold. Dried and dressed, slacks and blouse, light jacket, and through to the kitchen.

  She rarely ate breakfast. Went to the fridge and took out a bottle of flavoured water. Opened it and swigged a little, grabbed a large green apple from the overflowing fruit bowl, collected her keys and let herself out.

  Her car was sleeping in the garage. The up and over metal door creaked and banged as she opened it, alerting her neighbours she was up and out early. She drove into the old city and parked in the big car park across the road from the central police station, behind the law courts, down by the river. She’d bought a parking season ticket there and it was expensive, and was intent on getting her money’s worth.

  She was the first of the regular team in the office. She logged into the computer and bit into the apple and began reading the overnight crime reports and notes. It was still before 7am. Walter came in twenty minutes later, looking jaunty and content, she noted that.

  ‘Morning Greenwood,’ he said. ‘You’re in early. Couldn’t sleep?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  Walter limped to the coffee machine and came back with a steaming drink. ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘Nothing new.’

  Jenny Thompson came in next and smiled and nodded at the over-nighters, and she was followed by Hector Browne and Darren Gibbons.

  ‘Er, excuse me, but aren’t you and Nick supposed to be seeing Jimmy Crocker first thing this morning?’ said Walter, glugging on the coffee, and gazing at Darren.

  ‘Couldn’t, Guv. Nicky’s going to his grandma’s funeral today, he rang me last night.’

  ‘Did he now? He kept that to himself.’

  Walter made a mental note to check if that were true, for in the past they had once had a clever dick of a PC who had attended at least five grandmother’s funerals over the years, taking the piss he was, and Walter couldn’t abide being lied to.

  ‘Well it still has to be done, take Hector with you, get down there now, it’s still early enough, you know the thinking, visit early before they get out of bed, before they have woken up, before they have gone to work, or whatever they get up to.’

  Gibbons nodded and looked at Hector who had heard everything and had gone for his jacket. Walter was talking again.

  ‘And after you’ve seen him, go and see those bloody publicans again. You might like to drop a hint that the hierarchy here might not be so happy to approve the renewal of their alcohol licences next time round, if they can’t be more cooperative and helpful in our enquiries into the affairs of the late Eleanor Wright.’

  Gibbons grinned and said, ‘Sure Guv,’ and the two guys shrugged and left the building.

  Walter glanced across the desk at Karen. She looked a little tired; maybe she’d had an exciting night.

  ‘How did the date go?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she said, throwing the apple core in the bin. ‘Terrible.’

  So he didn’t ask, for it was none of his business, and he knew that she would tell him in her own good time, if she wished to, and if she didn’t, that was cool. He couldn’t stop a grin crossing his heavy face. His unplanned date had gone fantastically well, though he’d keep that nugget to himself.

  Hector drove the unmarked car to Saltney Ferry and 20 Laburnum Gardens. It was a small redbrick townhouse, two floors, one of five linked houses, one of the middle ones. It looked older than its ten years, but that was down to a lack of care and maintenance. The paint on the white window frames was peeling in places, and the small front garden hadn’t been weeded in at least a year, and it showed. As they made their way up the small path toward the front door Hector began whistling.

  ‘Give it a rest, Heck,’ said Gibbons, as he rang the bell.

  The bell inside rang, and the big dog barked.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Hector. ‘That’s all we need, a damn big dog.’

  Gibbons grinned and muttered, ‘Probably a pussy.’

  They both heard a guy inside yell, ‘Ma! Some fucker’s at the front door.’

  ‘I’m going, ya lazy tyke,’ and in the next second a big woman appeared wearing a cavernous blue dressing gown. She pulled the door open, while holding back an ugly looking brown beast that was keen to get better acquainted. The woman glared knowingly at them, for she could smell out the law at two hundred paces, as did the dog.

  Hector did the introductions, as the woman turned and yelled up the stairs, ‘Jimmy! Get your arse out of that bed. The coppers are here for you.’

  They heard him say, ‘Oh what the fuck do they want now?’

  ‘Come and bloody find out! I’ll put the dog in the kitchen,’ and she turned around and did just that.

  A minute later Jimmy Crocker appeared in the hallway, having thrown on a grubby white T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. He eyed up Gibbons for a second for he’d come across him in battle before.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I don’t want the whole fucking world knowing my business.’

  Darren and Hector stepped into the small and now crowded hallway. Not surprisingly it smelt of big brown dog.

  ‘We are making enquiries about a young woman named Eleanor Wright,’ said Hector.

  ‘No comment,’ said Jimmy C, out of habit.

  ‘We can do this here, or we can do it down the station,’ said Darren, ‘and that could easily take all day, and half the night.’

  Jimmy pulled a face and shook his head and said, ‘Eleanor who?’

  ‘Eleanor Wright.’

  ‘Don’t know anyone of that name.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Darren.

  ‘Positive. Who is she?’

  Hector ignored Jimmy’s question and asked, ‘Where were you on Friday night?’

  Jimmy sniffed and turned away and shouted into the lounge, ‘Ma! Where was I on Friday night?’

  ‘He was here, with me, all night,’ came back the yelled and very predictable reply.

  ‘Anyone else here?’ asked Darren.

  ‘Only Bozo.’

  ‘Who’s Bozo?’ asked Hector.

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘Did you go anywhere near the river on Friday?’ asked Darren.

  ‘Course I did. The river winds through the city, it’s hard not to.’

  He had a point there.

  ‘Did you visit a young woman in a caravan down by the river?’ persisted Gibbons.

  ‘No, worse luck. Why? Was she a goer?’ and Crocker smirked.

  ‘The young woman in question is dead,’ said Darren, staring into the back of Crocker’s beady eyes.

  Crocker pursed his lips, his bottom lip came out and he said, ‘It happens. We all die sometime.’

  ‘She was burned to death, in her caravan,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do you smoke?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Yeah, now and again, not a crime is it?’

  ‘So you have matches o
n you, maybe a lighter?’

  ‘Now hang on a minute!’

  ‘Do you own a car?’ asked Gibbons.

  ‘No. Use me mam’s, when I need to.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ asked Hector.

  Crocker opened the front door and nodded across the road to a small car park where five cars were gathered together, side by side.

  ‘It’s the old red Vauxhall, buggered it is,’ said Crocker. ‘Hope to get my own soon.’

  They all looked out and there it was, second from the end.

  ‘And you’ve never met Eleanor Wright?’ asked Hector.

  ‘No I haven’t, said so, didn’t I.’

  Hector and Darren shared a look and nodded, and couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and Darren muttered something about thanking him for his time, and in the next second they were walking away across the road to examine the car.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Darren.

  ‘Could be him,’ said Hector. ‘Slippery git.’

  ‘He is that,’ and Darren took a small plastic bag from his pocket and slipped on a pair of wafer thin plastic gloves and bent down and looked at the tyres. There were some small pieces of mud there, and muddy marks on the edges of the tyres too, but that meant nothing, for with that storm last night and the rain before that, and the wet and muddy roads, almost every car in the city would be sporting muddy marks that morning. Nevertheless he carefully peeled a few small lumps from the rubber and slipped them in the bag, and sealed it, and placed it in his jacket pocket.

  Hector nodded and said, ‘Where to now?’

  ‘The pubs of course, Heck, the pubs.’

  Fourteen

  At smack on ten o’clock Walter received a telephone call. It was from Janice Jefferson. Walter told Karen to listen in. ‘Inspector Darriteau?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You slipped a card through my door. I suppose it’s about poor Ellie. Terrible isn’t it? I’m still in shock.’