Blood Red Roses

by Lin Anderson

  Bill extracted Tracey’s address from the pole dancer and they drove round there. Neither of them expected to find Tracey at home.

  The basement bedsit, complete with barred windows, was near the Kelvin Hall. The door was opened by a short balding man in his fifties. He took a long look at Bill’s ID card before he let them in.

  Tracey had gone out a couple of hours ago, he told them. She hadn’t come back. Rhona didn’t like the man, but thought he was probably telling the truth.

  Tracey’s room was untidy and smelt musty. The wardrobe and drawers were stacked with clothes. If Tracey had run, she hadn’t taken much with her.

  Bill went out to the car to call the station while Rhona took a closer look.

  A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the dressing table beside the picture of a small boy of about three on a swing. He was so like Tracey, he had to be her son. The child obviously didn’t live here. Could Tracey have gone to wherever he was?

  Rhona heard Bill in the hall.

  ‘I’ve put out a call on Tracey.’

  Rhona handed him the photo.

  ‘Tracey had a kid?’

  ‘Looks like it. I think you should ask for a forensic team to go over this room too.’

  ‘Tricky. This isn’t even a missing person case yet.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it myself, unofficially for the moment.’ She didn’t add until we find a body. By the look on Bill’s face, he was thinking the same thing.

  It was dark as they drove back to the lab. Bill’s wife called him on the way, reminding him to come home and eat. For a moment, Rhona wished someone was waiting at home for her.

  The lab was deserted. Everyone including Chrissy had left. Rhona set to work, enjoying the silence.

  The pathologist had confirmed strychnine had been used to kill Donna. The large dose she was given killed her quickly, probably because of a weak heart. Otherwise Donna’s agony might have lasted even longer.

  A rose expert had promised to get back to Rhona on the breed of rose found in Donna’s flat. Something special could prove easier to track down.

  An hour later she had what she was looking for. Minute traces of blood on three of the rose’s thorns. If the guy who liked his sex rough was Donna’s murderer, they had his blueprint.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jonny Simpson wasn’t due back at work for a week. His honeymoon week, the supervisor reminded Bill.

  Bill thanked him and put the phone down.

  Tracey’s feelings about Jonny Simpson had never been fully explained. And now Bill couldn’t ask her. Nine times out of ten the murderer was someone the victim knew. Men regularly killed their wives and their girlfriends. Jonny had lied about the rose. He was jealous of someone or something.

  As far as Bill was concerned there were two men in the frame for the murder. Jonny and the mystery guy who visited Donna regularly at the club.

  Rhona had a DNA sample from blood on the rose. It would prove whether Jonny had handled the rose but it wouldn’t prove he killed Donna.

  Bill didn’t like to think about the third scenario. That the murderer had chosen Donna at random. With no other motive than the desire to kill.

  Jonny’s room above the fire station was empty. His mates hadn’t seen him since the news about Donna. His best man, Alistair Banks, also a fireman, had no idea where Jonny was.

  ‘He said he needed to get away for a couple of days. Sort his head out. He was devastated about Donna.’

  ‘Did Jonny say anything about Donna seeing someone else?’

  Banks looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘No way. You should have seen them together. Donna loved him.’

  ‘And Jonny?’

  ‘Donna was Jonny’s girl. He wouldn’t have let... ’

  Bill waited.

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Donna had a regular spot at the Eden club as a lap dancer.’ Bill watched the face closely. ‘Did Jonny know that?’

  A lot of emotions played on Banks’ face. Then he decided to come clean.

  ‘Jonny met Donna there. We went in a crowd from the fire station. When they started a relationship, Donna stopped dancing. That’s what he told me.’

  ‘Jonny believed she’d stopped?’

  Banks nodded.

  But Donna hadn’t stopped dancing. Was that enough reason for Jonny to kill her? Bill winced at the thought. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that Jonny and Tracey had disappeared at about the same time. And that conjured up all sorts of ideas. Most of them bad.

  Had Jonny killed his bride-to-be in a fit of rage and Tracey suspected him? If so, Jonny would have to remove Tracey to stop her talking.

  Bill had been a policeman for a long time. Some said he had too soft a heart to become a Chief Inspector. He didn’t sook up to the right people. He fell out with his superiors too often. He was a free spirit. A loose cannon. Bill didn’t care what they said about him. All he cared about was finding out the truth. That’s why he and Rhona got along. She was a scientist. But she had a heart. A big one, though she tried not to show it too often. Rhona took every case to heart. Every death. The only way she could help the victim was to solve the case. She was determined about that. It took up all her time and denied her a personal life. Bill wondered for a moment about the saxophone player she’d met at his birthday party. Had it lasted? He secretly wanted Dr Rhona MacLeod to have what he had. Someone to love her. A life outside murder and mayhem. A family.

  A family is what neither Donna nor the missing Tracey seemed to have, despite the fact that Tracey was a mother.

  DC Clarke had come up with details of Tracey’s child. The boy was three. He had been born when Tracey was fifteen. Tracey had refused to have him adopted and he was now in long-term fostering. If she had a photo of the boy, it was likely she was in touch with the foster family. DC Clarke was checking their address with the social work department.

  By seven o’clock Rhona had the name of the rose. He could hear her excitement over the phone.

  ‘A new rose. Came on the market summer 2004. Bred from a fragrant garden rose and a cut rose for vase display. Lasts well and smells nice.’

  ‘Well done,’ he said and meant it.

  ‘I had help.’

  ‘So where does that get us?’

  ‘The roses are only sold by Marks and Spencer.’

  ‘He didn’t grow it?’

  ‘Which explains why it was blooming in November.’

  Bill’s heart sank. How many people bought roses from Marks and Spencer?

  Rhona came in. ‘Try the nearest outlets to the club and Donna’s flat. If the guy was in the habit of buying them, the shop might remember him.’

  ‘We’ll give it a go.’

  ‘No sign of Tracey?’

  Bill grunted. ‘No. And Jonny’s disappeared now too.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rhona went past the jazz club on her way home.

  Outside, she read and re-read the advert for the weekly jazz sessions Sean played in, refusing to admit that his name on the billboard was important to her.

  It was dark inside. She stumbled down the stairs following the sound of his saxophone. He was practising and his quiet notes matched the beat of her heart.

  The same guy was behind the bar, stacking. When he saw her, he melted into the background.

  Sean stood alone on stage, lit by a single light, his eyes closed. He was improvising For You. He played the tune through simply, then each note took on a partner, became a trio, then a complex variation.

  Sean caught sight of her and stopped.

  Rhona thought for a moment she had made a mistake. Was she wrong about the situation between them? She hated the effect the thought had on her. Then his face lit up.

  ‘Rhona.’

  ‘I was passing,’ she lied.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  The barman brought coffee. They sat in the shadow of a booth, opposite one another, and drank it. Sean appeared calm. Rhona was nervous, a feel
ing she didn’t like.

  He broke the silence. ‘I’m playing tonight. Will you come?’

  ‘I’m not a big jazz fan.’

  He was three feet from her, yet she could smell the scent of his skin.

  ‘It takes time to appreciate jazz.’

  They were talking but the words meant nothing. Only the physical closeness of their bodies.

  ‘I don’t start here for a couple of hours. Have you eaten?’

  He took her silence as a no and stood up.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Bill phoned in the middle of the meal. Rhona knew by his voice it was something bad.

  ‘Tracey?’

  ‘The council came to remove a skip from a back alley close to Eden. Tracey’s body was inside. It looks much like the last one.’

  Rhona swore under her breath.

  Sean was silent, watching her face.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  She flicked the mobile shut.

  ‘I have to go. When do you finish at the jazz club?’

  ‘Midnight,’ he said. ‘I’ll come round.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Rhona didn’t argue because it was what she wanted too.

  The twisted body had been removed from the skip and laid in the incident tent. Tracey was almost unrecognisable. Broken masonry sliding down a shute from the roof had beaten and bloodied her. But the typical grin of the strychnine victim was there.

  A wave of emotion hit Rhona. Twenty-four hours ago Tracey had been alive. They had known she was scared of something or someone, and they hadn’t saved her from this horrible death.

  Bill Wilson looked the way she felt.

  ‘Did no one look in the skip before they dropped the stuff down the shute?’ Rhona asked in disbelief.

  ‘She was under rubbish. They didn’t see her.’

  ‘How the hell did he get her in there?’

  If Tracey was alive at the time, her limbs would have been jerking all over the place. If she was dead, she would have been a dead weight.

  ‘Maybe he had help?’

  Bill was right. There could be more than one of them.

  ‘Someone could be helping him clear up the mess,’ she said. ‘Someone who has a lot to lose if we find the murderer.’

  ‘I’ve got a list of Eden’s regular customers from Belcher. DC Clarke’s going through them now.’

  ‘The important clients won’t be on that list.’

  Bill made a growling noise in his throat. ‘Then I’ll find a way to shut the place down.’

  When Bill left the tent, Rhona stepped into her white suit. She slipped on the mask and gloves and began her forensic examination of Tracey’s body.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They picked up Jonny Simpson at eleven o’clock. He had turned up at Tracey’s flat, shouting the odds. The landlord didn’t like his attitude and called the police.

  Jonny looked rough. Stubble and sleepless eyes. The haunted look could be fear he was about to be charged... or sheer misery. Bill wasn’t sure which. Too many roads led to Jonny, especially now the barman at Eden had told them he had been in there threatening Tracey the night before she died.

  Bill nodded at DC Clarke to start the tape rolling. He said the necessary details into the mike then turned to Jonny.

  ‘Why did you want to speak to Tracey?’

  Jonny looked up defiantly, but said nothing.

  ‘A barman at Eden reported that you were seen threatening her.’

  Jonny’s expression didn’t change. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I repeat. Did you threaten Tracey Nickell?’

  Jonny examined his hands.

  Bill pushed a set of crime scene photos across the desk. He hadn’t told Jonny that Tracey was dead... yet. He wanted to see his reaction when he found out (if he didn’t know already).

  Jonny concentrated on his hands. They were grimy. Bill wondered if he’d been sleeping rough since Donna’s death.

  Human psychology said that Jonny would look at the photos eventually. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. Jonny’s head was down but the eyes were swivelling.

  Bill spread the photos apart. The mangled remains of Tracey were now clearly visible.

  Jonny’s body tensed. He turned slightly and took in the photo nearest him. He swallowed. His knuckles shone white with pressure.

  ‘Oh God.’

  He covered his face with his hands, his body heaving silent sobs.

  Bill pressed the stop button.

  ‘Get Jonny a cup of tea. Make it strong and sweet.’

  DC Clarke left.

  ‘You’re good Jonny. I’ll give you that. Proper little actor... for a soap. But I know you did that,’ he stabbed the photo with his forefinger. ‘You killed Donna because she was sleeping with someone else, probably for money. Then you killed Tracey because she suspected it was you.’

  Jonny jerked his head like a child defiantly saying no.

  Janice came in with the tea. Bill took out a small hip flask and tipped in some whisky then pushed it in front of Jonny.

  ‘Drink!’

  Jonny lifted the mug, his hand shaking, and gulped at the hot tea.

  The words came rushing out.

  ‘I found out Donna was still working at the club, but not until after she died. I went round. I was mad at Tracey because I knew she was in on it. I made her promise to do what Belcher said. Go on acting the whore with the rose. I thought the sicko would come back and I’d get him myself.’

  ‘Then it’s your fault Tracey’s dead.’

  Beside Bill, DC Clarke made a small disapproving sound.

  ‘This isn’t recording sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Jonny’s just leaving.’

  A look of surprise crossed Jonny’s face.

  ‘Go home. Get some sleep,’ Bill grabbed the photos and stood up. ‘Be back here at eleven tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See Mr Simpson out, DC Clarke.’

  Bill watched the pair leave the room. He couldn’t charge Jonny until he had some evidence that he had been at the murder scene, both murder scenes. And he had to depend on Dr MacLeod for that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sean wasn’t going to show. Rhona tried the mobile number he’d given her but got only the message service. She was angry with herself. She should never have gone to the club. It looked like she was chasing him.

  It was after one o’clock, plenty of time to get from the jazz club to here, she told herself one more time. If he arrived now she wouldn’t let him in. Better than that she wouldn’t be here at all.

  She pulled on a short black dress and high heels and grabbed her jacket. Outside it was cold with a clear sky. She walked briskly towards the main road and waved down the first taxi that passed.

  ‘Where to, luv?’

  ‘Eden.’

  ‘Eden?’ he repeated.

  ‘The lap dancing club,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Okay.’ The driver gave her a look that spoke volumes, but didn’t argue.

  The city centre was empty except for the usual prostitute on every corner. Above Eden a red light blinked on and off illuminating a lap dancer.

  ‘Do you want me to wait for you?’

  He obviously thought she had come here to find a wayward boyfriend or husband.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Rhona handed him his fare.

  He slipped her a card with her change. ‘In case you want a quick exit.’

  Rhona waited until he drove off, then skirted the building and entered the back lane. The incident tent was down. The skip had been removed. A couple were fucking against the wall. The guy looked round when Rhona appeared, then went briskly on with what he was doing. The girl gave Rhona a bored look over his shoulder.

  The fire doors were wedged open a foot. Rhona slipped inside. The distant sound of dance music beat like a rapid heart in the green corridor.

  The women’s toilet was empty except for one locked cubicle. Rhona used the mi
rror to paint on a face and do her hair. Looking at the result, she was satisfied Belcher wouldn’t recognise her, if she kept her distance.

  The main room was heaving. She pushed her way through the crowds to the bar. The barman wasn’t the one from her previous visit. She arranged herself on the stool while he gave her the once over.

  ‘What can I do you for?’

  She gave him a friendly smile. ‘Looking for a bar job. Who do I speak to?’

  He thought for a minute.

  ‘Boss is busy. Important customers,’ he rubbed his fingers together to emphasise money. ‘Keep an eye on the door right of the stage. That’s his office.’ He pushed her over a drink. ‘Fat guy with a red face. Belcher’s the name. And a wee warning. He likes to handle the goods before he hires.’

  Rhona took her drink to an empty booth close to the office door. She didn’t get to stay alone for long. A guy watched her slide into the seat and immediately came over.

  ‘Can I join you?’

  She looked him up and down. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  His face darkened. ‘Who? The invisible fucking man?’

  She glanced pointedly at the closed door. ‘The boss.’

  He muttered something obscene under his breath and went back to join the crowd round the pole dancer.

  When Belcher emerged, he had three middle-aged men with him. Rhona recognised one face. From where she wasn’t sure. Then it hit her. The guy was something to do with football.

  She stared at her drink as Belcher passed. The three guys were set on a private showing. When they disappeared through the baize door, Rhona took her chance.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Once inside, she shut the office door and locked it.

  It was a large room. In the centre stood a massive oak desk like something out of a Hollywood mafia movie. Belcher, she realised, had ideas above his station. The scent of expensive aftershave and cigar smoke hung in the air. On the left hand wall was a painting hinged back to reveal a two-foot-square screen. Something Bill hadn’t found in his search of the premises.

  On the screen was a clear image of a room in the green corridor. The room was lit by a flashing red light. A young woman stood open-legged above one of the three men Rhona had seen follow Belcher. There was no sound, but Rhona sensed the beat of the music the girl moved to. The girl lowered herself, pressing her crotch against the man’s face. Then the image changed. Another room, another girl, another dance.