by Conrad Jones
Annie sighed and felt a little embarrassed, “I know you’re not stupid. I can’t talk about the details. The long and short of it is that the victim didn’t have the tattoo that you described on her toe.”
“Are you telling me that Jayne is not dead?” her thin lips quivered as she spoke.
“No,” Annie said frankly. “I’m not telling you that at all but the victim in the bedroom was not Jayne.”
“Of course, you can’t say much more can you?” As she spoke, her hand touched her face, wrinkled by age and coloured with dark liver spots. She was a pretty woman for her years. There were deep lines at the corners of her eyes but her cheeks were smooth. Only her hands gave away clues to her age. Annie put her closer to sixty-five than fifty. “I don’t understand, Inspector.” She jumped visibly as the roof of the house collapsed in on itself. A deep rumble echoed across the street. Burning embers, smoke and steam spiralled skyward. “She could be in there couldn’t she?” Another tear broke free and rolled down her face. “Buried beneath all that rubble.”
Annie looked at the notes that the liaison officer had made. “Listen, Elsbeth,” she said. “May I call you that?”
“Beth,” she sniffed. “Everyone calls me Beth.”
“Okay, Beth. The facts are that the body we found didn’t have a tattoo and her feet were too small to be Jayne’s,” Annie explained. “The other thing to consider is that her car is missing. Can you think of any reason why it wouldn’t be parked on the drive?”
Beth thought about her comments and shook her head. “She didn’t drink so she never left it anywhere else.”
“Then the chances of her being in there,” Annie looked at the smouldering shell, “are very slim. We didn’t have a lot of time in there but a preliminary search was done by the responding officers. There was no sign of another victim.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Inspector,” Beth smiled thinly. Her eyes had intelligence behind them. “Whoever killed that poor woman probably took Jayne with them.” She watched Annie’s face for a reaction. “At least that’s what I would be thinking if I was in your position. She could be lying dead somewhere while we’re sat here discussing her couldn’t she?”
Annie nodded and sighed. “She could be but we don’t know that for a fact. A neighbour saw her going out on Saturday night. Who did Jayne socialise with?”
“Jayne didn’t have many friends,” Beth said staring at what was left of her daughter’s home. “Might be my fault that she was awkward around people.”
“How so?”
“I had her very late in life you see,” she explained. “I’d turned forty. Her father died when she was a baby, heart attack and I wrapped her in cotton wool. I was a little over protective.” A tear formed and spilled from her left eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. “Do you have children?”
“No,” Annie smiled. “They’re not conducive with being a DI.” In her head she added ‘and now that I’m a one-eyed freak, I’m hardly likely to have much choice in the matter’ but she didn’t say it aloud.
“Yes that must be difficult to get a balance.” Her voice drifted off as if she was in deep thought. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. “Don’t leave it too late like I did. Every woman should have a child, it makes them complete.”
Annie didn’t agree. Some of the mothers that she encountered on a daily basis should never have been allowed to breed. It wasn’t a debate that she needed to get into. She didn’t want to lose her just yet. “You were telling me who her friends were?”
“Pardon?”
“Her friends?”
“Oh yes,” Beth snapped back to reality. “Please forgive me. A senior moment that’s all.”
“You have suffered a nasty shock, Beth but it would really help me if you could tell me their names.”
Beth nodded and smiled but it was a sad smile. “That will not be a very long list, Inspector. As I said, she didn’t have many friends at all.” She wiped another tear away. “Her best friend is, was, oh dear,” she sobbed. There was a long pause as she closed her eyes and composed herself. “Jackie Webb. She lives in a flat near Sefton Park. She told me that they were going out to town on Saturday night.” Her eyes widened and she looked at Annie in the eyes. “Do you think that might be Jackie in there?”
Annie swerved the question. “Do you have an address and a number for her?”
“Yes,” Beth stammered. “I have her business card here. A few years back she set herself up as a mobile beauty therapist, doing permanent mascara, lip liners and the like.” She fumbled in her handbag, which Annie noticed was a hand stitched designer Vuitton. “Here it is.”
“Was she blond?”
“Yes, most of the time. She had a jet black phase but it didn’t last long,” she half smiled. “Was the victim blond?”
Annie didn’t want to answer that question. Luckily the sound of ambulance sirens arriving rescued her. “I’ll need to talk to you again soon but for now, we need to get you to hospital and get that head wound stitched.”
“Do you think Jayne’s alive?” she asked quietly. “I mean in your mind, do you believe there’s any hope?”
“There’s always hope, Beth.”
“Not always, we both know that.” Beth seemed to shrink in on herself. She looked frail, shattered and vulnerable. “This is a violent world that we live in. sometimes there is no hope at all.” She touched Annie’s hand. “Find her for me, Inspector. I want my daughter home.” She swallowed hard. “Even if she is,” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, “You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Annie nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ll do my best,” Annie squeezed her hand and opened the door, desperate to escape the woman’s grief. She climbed out of the Audi and took a deep gulp of smoke tainted air before walking over to Stirling who was talking to a CSI. He saw her approaching and broke off from his conversation. “Anything?” Annie asked.
“Nothing yet, they’re still searching the neighbouring gardens, bins etc,” he shrugged. “Early days yet, Guv. Did you get anything from the mother?”
“I got the name, address and phone number of Jayne’s best friend, Jackie Webb. She said that Jackie is who Jayne had planned to go out with. Apparently, she’s a blond.”
“Oh dear.”
“Oh dear indeed. Get uniform to her house just to check. She works for herself and she’s mobile so if her vehicle is parked up and there’s no answer, we’ve found our victim.”
“You said she was mobile, mobile what?” Stirling frowned.
“Beautician apparently.”
“In which case if she is missing she’ll have a lot of disappointed customers leaving angry messages on her phone,” he said. “I’ll get her phone records and check her inbox. It could speed things up.”
“Good thinking,” Annie looked around as they spoke. “Where’s Kathy?”
“She’s gone back to the lab to get started on what they had bagged.” Stirling pointed to the growing group of press reporters. “Are we going public to see if we can trace where they went on Saturday night?”
Annie bit her bottom lip and watched the group. Some were chatting, some squabbling. The BBC camera crew were jostling for the best position to film the fire. “Last resort,” she decided. “Let’s get pictures of them both distributed around the city centre. Two girls out on a Saturday night, they’ll have been wherever still has a dance floor. That should narrow it down to a few hundred places.” She said sarcastically. They were looking for a needle in a pile of needles. “I want a team of four working on the script that was on the body. Put Watkin’s team on it. Graham took a lot of pictures of it. Have him send over everything he has and tell Watkin that I want to know what it is and what it says and tell him that I want to know today. In the meantime, let’s hope Kathy finds something.”
CHAPTER 9
Constable Bowers brought his vehicle to a halt outside a new apartment block, which overlooked Sefton
Park. Ornate railings separated the manicured lawns from the road and the entire plot was surrounded by well established trees. Bowers recalled that a school once stood on the spot. Developers had built sixty flats on it, which netted them millions. “How the other half live,” he sighed. He checked his notes for the apartment number and grumbled to himself about how many years he would have to save just to raise a deposit to buy a flat in a property like that. Feeling aggrieved at being sent on such a tedious errand, he opened the door and climbed out.
He glanced over at the park; acres of lawns ran gently down to the boating lake. A tractor purred in the distance, trimming the grass and clearing fallen leaves. The cool breeze that ruffled his greying hair had deterred all but the most determined walkers from enjoying the greenery. Bowers walked through the gates and checked the parking bays. According to control, a woman called Jackie Webb owned apartment number four and had a Mercedes SLK registered to her name. Most of the parking bays were empty but number four had a vehicle in it. There was a German made vehicle there but it wasn’t a Mercedes. It was a 3-series BMW.
Bowers thought about calling it in but decided not to. He needed to be sure of the details before he made a report. He turned towards the apartments and walked along a stone path to where the ground floor flats were. The numbers went up in twos; Jackie Webb’s being the second door along the path. The front window was bowed, Georgian style with lots of small square panes. Some of the panes were dimpled. His view inside was blocked by heavy curtains that were closed. He tapped his knuckles on the window and listened for movement inside. Nothing.
Bowers moved to the front door and peered through the bevelled glass. It was a pointless exercise. The image was so distorted that he couldn’t glean any information from it. He had a blurred impression of the hallway and nothing more. His orders were to knock on the door and check out the car parking bays. They had specifically ordered him not to touch the letterbox or try to enter the property. He had heard about the explosion across town and reading between the lines, it was obvious that there was a connection. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. Nothing.
“Seven, five, five,” he called into his coms. The radio crackled and buzzed.
“Go ahead, seven, five, five.”
“No reply at number four Sefton Heights but there is a 3-series BMW parked in the owner’s bay.”
“Roger that,” the voice replied. “I’ll relay it to the DI. Standby.”
“Roger,” he said distracted. A black Ford sped into the car park, tyres squealing as it screeched to a halt. The driver, a casually dressed middle aged woman with blond hair opened the door and walked quickly towards him, her face a picture of fear and concern.
“This is my daughter’s flat,” she said breathlessly. “Jackie Webb is my daughter. I have a key.” She tried to pass by him. “I need to get in to see if she is alright.”
“I can’t let you in there, Mrs Webb?” Bowers put his arm across her path. “Are you Mrs Webb?”
“Yes I am.” She snapped. “What do you mean I can’t go in?” she gasped. She pushed against him. “I have to get in there. Jackie may be injured!”
“Please calm down. Mrs Webb,” Bowers held firm. “Now what makes you think that Jackie is injured?”
She tried to step around him, her face flushed red with frustration. “Move you idiot!” she shouted. “Jayne’s mother called me and someone has been hurt. I have to get in there now!”
Bowers grabbed her by the arms and shook her gently to gain her attention. “Mrs Webb!” he growled. “I cannot let you into that property until we know that it is safe.” He shook her gently again. “Do you understand me?”
Mrs Webb tensed and then seemed to flop into his arms. Bowers had to grab her under the armpits to hold her weight. Her legs had turned to jelly. “Jackie could be hurt,” she whined. “Please!”
“Calm down,” Bowers said soothingly. He walked her backwards away from the front door. “Now what makes you think that she’s been injured?”
“My friend called me,” she sobbed. “Jayne Windsor’s mother. She said that there’s been a murder,” she rambled. “Jackie was with her daughter and I haven’t heard from her this week. I have to get inside.”
“Do you normally hear from her every day,” Bowers asked.
“No,” she stammered. “Not every day but she was with Jayne Windsor. Something terrible has happened.”
The name meant nothing to officer Bowers. His orders had been specific but had little in the way of details attached. He guided Mrs Webb further from the apartments; reluctantly but she didn’t resist. “Seven, five, five,” he kept one eye on the distraught woman as he spoke.
“Go ahead.”
“I have Mrs Webb here,” he tempered his voice so as not to panic her further. “She has keys to number four Sefton Heights and is keen to go inside to look for her daughter.” He paused. “She seems to think that she might be injured.”
“Negative, seven, five, five,” control replied. “The DI is en route with support vehicles. She specified that no one is to attempt entry under any circumstances. ETA fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that.” Bowers raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “You heard that, Mrs Webb. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until the detective in charge of the case arrives. I’m sorry but I can’t allow you near the apartment.”
Mrs Webb huffed and squeezed her hands together, childlike. “This is ridiculous!” she turned and stormed off towards her Ford. Bowers watched her suspiciously. Frightened people could be unpredictable but frightened parents were different again. They would do anything to protect their children even if it meant putting themselves in grave danger. “I’ll be filing a complaint,” she turned and wagged her finger at him. “I’ll sue if anything happens to Jackie.” She looked panicked and confused. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and check shirt and stomped her feet in anger. Bowers felt for her. He had children himself. Teenagers. He spent all day working with the scum of the earth, which made it very difficult not to worry whenever they were out of his sight. Mrs Webb looked around, desperate for the detectives to arrive so that she could try to find her daughter. When her eyes fell on the access road, which led to the rear of the apartments, she jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Bowers followed her gaze and realised what she intended to do. As she started the engine and the vehicle lurched forward, he swore under his breath and sprinted along the path.
CHAPTER 10
“We can rule out ancient Greek, Hebrew and Sumerian,” DS Watkin said excitedly. If there was anyone geeky enough to enjoy tracing an ancient script and identifying it, he was the man. “I would recognise them at a glance.” The three other officers in his team looked at each other and rolled their eyes skyward. They called him Google as it seemed there was no limit to his knowledge. Or so he claimed. “I could spot them a mile away.”
“Of course you would,” Gwen said sarcastically. She had worked alongside him for two years and understood his enthusiasm for the task at hand. She often told him that he should have been a forensic investigator. “Why don’t we Google ‘ancient text’ and eliminate them in alphabetical order?” The others nodded in agreement. “Surely it will speed things up.”
“No need to,” Watkin shrugged as he typed commands onto his keyboard. “Most ancient scripts are Runic in their origins but this is definitely not runic. That in itself negates much of what you’ll find on the net. I’m guessing these are biblical texts carved into the victim.” He mused as he scanned the screen with his tongue between his teeth. His thick lenses and chubby face gave him a schoolboy appearance. “I’ve seen this before and I am certain it is a type of Cyrillic.”
“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Gwen teased him. “It makes you look simple.”
“Using this word here as a template, it matches with Glagolitic!” he sat back and folded his arms proudly, ignoring her jibe. “I knew it. Some schools of thought in the old Eastern Block call it t
he ‘witches language’ because there are many dark books of spells and the like written in it.”
“Spells?”
Gwen folded her arms and nodded in agreement. “They used it in case the books fell into the wrong hands.” She shrugged. “So that the uneducated couldn’t use the content unwisely.”
“They also use it in case the authorities found them. Practicing witches were burned at the stake.”
“They found a pentagram at the scene didn’t they?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” Google looked at their faces and grinned. They didn’t look as excited by his discovery as they should. “What are you waiting for?” he pointed to their computer screens. “Google Glagolitic and pull up the alphabet. Take a photograph each and get on with translating the script. We can have this done by tonight!” he grinned again.
Gwen blew air from her cheeks and whistled. “Oh goodie,” she mumbled. “Let’s see what our latest psycho has to say shall we. I’ll take a five pound bet that it’s gobbledygook.”
“Oh no you’re very wrong,” Watkin said sternly. “Anyone who can learn this script and uses it to this extent, has something very important to say but he wants the reader to work very hard to decipher his words. I’ll take your five pound bet that it’s gobbledygook,” he leaned over the desk and held out his hand. Gwen shook his hand and scoffed. A second later, Google was scribbling letters onto a pad.
“It’s probably the lyrics to an Eminem album,” she muttered. She picked up a crime scene image of the victim and immediately felt a pang of guilt for making light of the text. It was after all, carved into her flesh. “Whatever it says,” she looked at the others, “Let’s hope it helps us to find this sick bastard.”
“Amen,” Google said. His team looked surprised. He smiled and shook his head, “Amen! It’s the first word on her left collarbone. I knew there would be something Biblical!”
