by David Hodges
‘I’ve always fancied women in uniform,’ Hayden Lewis’s familiar voice said huskily. Then he released her and fell back against the wall, laughing hysterically.
Kate turned on him, her eyes blazing and the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Not funny, Hayden!’ she shouted, beating against his chest with her fists. ‘Not bloody funny!’
Lewis grabbed her wrists and held them out at arm’s length until he felt her arms relax. ‘Hey, hey,’ he said anxiously, ‘no need for that. I was only playing about.’
The bedroom light snapped on and he stared at her wet face in astonishment. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, old girl?’ he went on, pulling out a handkerchief and trying to dry her eyes with one hand as he put his other arm around her shoulders.
She pulled away from him, hiccupping her sobs for a few seconds. ‘Well, I’m not in the mood for stupid games,’ she retorted, slumping on to the edge of the bed to finish the job of drying her eyes with his handkerchief herself. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’
He sat down beside her, rubbing her arm with one hand. ‘Whatever’s happened to make you like this?’ he soothed. ‘It’s not like the fearless Kate Hamblin who used to live here.’
She stared at him with a faint smile, her anger subsiding – as it always did when she was close to this lovable, eccentric man with his old-fashioned, public-school ways and inherent courtesy, so untypical of the average CID officer. She could never be mad at Hayden for long. The soft hazel eyes with their permanent little-boy-lost expression, the wide good-natured face and the mop of unruly flaxen hair that tumbled over his ears and forehead like an uncut hedge may not have assured him of sex symbol status, but with his rumpled suits, threadbare shirts and scuffed suede shoes that looked as though they might have come straight from a charity shop, he had the sort of persona that could only have failed to arouse the deepest maternal instincts in a woman who was emotionally dead.
‘There’s been a murder at Wadman’s Funeral Directors,’ she blurted finally. ‘A young girl about my age.’
His eyes widened. ‘Wadman’s?’ he echoed. ‘No wonder you were upset. Being there again must have awakened some rotten memories.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t just the murder. She was actually dumped in the chapel of rest in – in a bloody coffin.’
‘Gordon Bennett!’ he exclaimed, then stiffened, his eyes narrowing. ‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’
She nodded. ‘The girl was a local prostitute, obviously picked because she looked like me – same auburn hair, build and everything.’
He frowned. ‘You can’t know that for certain, old girl. It was probably just a coincidence—’
‘Coincidence, my arse!’ she cut in savagely. ‘Hayden, she had been stripped and then dressed in a police uniform with my shoulder numbers on the epaulettes and someone had broken her neck.’
Lewis gaped at her. ‘Strewth, what are you saying?’ he breathed, knowing the answer even before she replied.
‘It’s Twister,’ she said. ‘He’s back and he wants me to know it.’
For a moment there was absolute silence as Lewis tried to digest what she had said. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘It seems unbelievable – and why now, after all this time?’
‘That’s what the DI said.’
‘Well, he’s right. Maybe it’s a copycat job?’
She gave a hard, humourless laugh. ‘DI said that as well, but it’s crap. This is Twister, no doubt about it.’
‘So what about the uniform? I know it’s not difficult getting hold of police kit from surplus outlets, but I mean, the right size and everything. That must have been an incredible stroke of luck.’
Kate stood up quickly. ‘Luck doesn’t enter into it,’ she said grimly and jerked back the sliding door of the built-in wardrobe. The empty hangar that had once held a spare set of her uniform confirmed her worst suspicions and seemed to leer at her.
‘He got the real thing,’ she said. ‘Hayden, the bastard’s been in this house!’
Twister was in a good mood – a very good mood. In fact, he was grinning to himself as he parked his stolen Volvo in the big car-park at Highbridge and walked to the bus stop in town. He knew Kate Hamblin had seen him waving at her in the mist. He had clocked her pale face at the window of his old undertaker’s business as he stood there watching the police activity and having a quiet smoke. He had slipped away before she’d had the opportunity of coming after him, but it was easy to imagine her shock and sense of panic. Good on you, girl, he thought – and this is just the beginning.
Killing the prossie had been a necessary start to his little game, but it had also been fun. First getting her to strip naked in that cold, candle-lit room had given him a real buzz. Her slim pale body had looked excitingly vulnerable in the flickering glow, the gold stud in her navel glittering at him invitingly as she’d wriggled her toes and stared at him with big frightened eyes.
She had already sensed she was going to die and her fits of shivering had had nothing to do with the cold – just pure terror. Strange how people still complied with a killer’s instructions, even though they knew what the outcome would be; he had seen it many times before in the army when he had made his victims kneel in front of him before slitting their throats or snapping their necks. Maybe it was a desperate attempt to please the man who was about to take their lives, in the hope that he would change his mind or even an attempt to delay the inevitable for as long as possible? Whatever the reason, it added a certain extra enjoyment to the experience, made it much more of a special occasion.
It had helped him a lot, too. Dressing a corpse was always a lot more difficult than getting the victim to dress themselves before being wasted, although this one had looked a little surprised, even a bit hopeful when he’d produced the police uniform and tossed it to her – probably thought that maybe she wasn’t going to be killed after all, just asked to perform some sort of perverted sexual act involving the coffin. Poor deluded cow! He’d snapped her neck while pretending to adjust the collar of her blouse – quick, clean and, above all, professional, just like the old days. He couldn’t have felt happier with the way it had all gone.
There were two old ladies waiting as he approached the bus stop and he courteously helped one of them with her small suitcase before boarding the bus, receiving a nice smile and a ‘thank you’ in return. A gentleman, they obviously thought. Had they but known.
It only took ten minutes to reach Bridgwater’s outskirts and he got off the bus just before the town centre, walking briskly across the road to a large industrial development. The man behind the reception desk nodded in greeting, recognizing him at once. Twister had hired one of the firm’s vans before to transport some special equipment he had purchased to his hideaway out on the Levels and ‘Mr Dennis Prewitt’ was now seen as a trusted customer. Producing the forged driving licence he had used on the previous occasion – courtesy of good friends in the Smoke – he was soon behind the wheel of a long-wheelbase Ford Transit on an extended hire and heading back to Highbridge.
But he didn’t stop there. He intended to pick up the Volvo once he had dumped the Transit, and so instead, took the road out of the town, via the village of Watchfield and along Mark Causeway, before heading out on to the Levels. The cottage came into view very soon afterwards, a dismal looking place, enclosed by broken-down fencing in the middle of a field. It was empty and in an advanced state of dereliction, but he’d known that already, for this wasn’t his first visit. As an old soldier, he had made sure he carried out a full reconnoitre of the place before making a decision about it.
Turning into the gateway giving access to the field, he jumped out of the vehicle, leaving the engine running, and unhooked the chain holding the five-barred gate shut. A quick glance around him to satisfy himself that no one was watching and he drove through, stopping only briefly to shut the gate behind him before taking the rutted track across the field towards the house.
Instead of pulling up outside, however, he continued along the broken-down boundary fence, then turned sharp left down the side of the place, gripping the wheel tightly as the Transit bumped and slewed its way through the tufted grass to the rear of the property and a large barn like structure crouched in the corner of the field.
The barn doors were tightly closed and secured with a heavy padlock, but that didn’t deter him, since he had put the padlock and hasp on the doors himself a few days before, and he soon had them open wide enough to drive the Transit through.
Another quick look round outside, shielding his eyes to study the road and the adjoining drove, but there was no sign of anyone. Hardly surprising in this remote spot, which was probably why the property had been left to decay since the demise of the last owner; no one had the slightest interest in buying it. Even the barn was in a state of near collapse, but it suited Twister’s purpose well enough and he had already blocked up any gaps in the timber walls with pieces of hardboard and sacking, tacking them in place to reduce the risk of the light from the powerful battery-operated lamps he had rigged up inside being visible to anyone passing.
Closing the doors, he now turned on the lamps and smiled with the excitement of a child given the freedom of his father’s workshop for the first time. He had certainly kitted the place out well, even if he did say so himself: workbench, metal shelving, even a butane gas stove – well, you needed a cuppa when you were working, didn’t you? The shelves too were packed with a variety of tools and other equipment, including battery operated drills, chargers, screwdrivers, hammers and spanners, steel brackets and rolls of black tape – everything needed for a spot of DIY, in fact.
Yet there were some quite curious items as well. Three leather swivel chairs, still in their cardboard packaging, had been pushed into a corner and a new mountain bike – which he had stolen from outside a cycle shop in Bridgwater a couple of days before, knowing he would need to get back to the Volvo in Highbridge after leaving the Transit in the barn – stood against one wall. The workbench itself held two large boxes. According to their labels, they contained computer and camera equipment respectively – opened, but as yet unpacked – together with a reel of electrical cabling, while a pair of oblong signs, expertly hand-painted by a sign-writer engaged a fortnight before, stood face in against one wall, the lamplight bouncing off the strips of black polished metal.
And watching over it all, incongruous in such a setting and strangely sinister, were two clothed shop-type mannequins, seated on a straw bale in the corner, their heads and blank faces turned towards the door and tilted slightly on one side, as if listening.
Twister seemed to acknowledge their presence as he stripped off his coat and reached for a drill on one of the shelves. Inserting a bit in the chuck, he gave a hard metallic laugh.
‘Soon be party time,’ he said, pressing the trigger for a few seconds to listen to the scream of the motor, ‘then we can give old Kate the send-off she deserves. Now won’t that be fun?’
And only the mannequins and the birds nesting in the roof above his head were there to share his twisted humour.
chapter 5
KATE FELT AS though she had been hit by a truck. Unable to sleep after Lewis had left for work – late as usual – she had jumped at every sound in the old cottage; the crack of timbers, the rustling of a small rodent or bird in the thatch and the sigh of the newly arisen breeze through the eaves.
A thorough check of the place had produced no clues whatsoever as to how their burglar could have got in – or when. All the windows seemed to be securely fastened, the French doors at the back were locked and bolted on the inside and the front door was fitted with a special security lock that engaged as soon as the door closed. Yet someone had still managed to gain entry without using any force and that left Kate with a creepy unsettled feeling. As a result, even after satisfying herself for the second time that the front door and the French windows were locked and bolted and that there was a long-bladed knife from the kitchen drawer under her pillow for protection, she had still not felt secure enough to close her eyes for longer than a few minutes at a time. When exhaustion finally did claim her, the shrill of the bedside telephone about three hours later put paid to any further sleep opportunities.
‘Hope I didn’t wake you,’ DS Sharp chortled, obviously enjoying the moment, ‘but Guv’nor wants you in at the 1400 hours briefing.’
Cursing the weasel-faced detective, she stumbled from the bed into the shower and stood there enjoying the caress of the hot spray for several minutes before reluctantly switching off and stepping out on to the rubber mat in front of the cubicle. Removing her shower cap, she shook her auburn hair out over her shoulders again and wiped the steam from the wash-hand basin mirror to study her reflection.
Twenty-eight, and she still had her youthful freckles, but the blue eyes that stared back at her from the pale drawn face – once so alive and full of mischief – were dull and haunted, with dark smudges under them, as if she had used too much eye-shadow. Even her hair seemed to have lost its vitality and she brushed it vigorously for several minutes, seemingly in an attempt to restore it to its former coppery lustre. She glared at herself angrily in the mirror. She was fast becoming a wreck, just like after the nightmare business two years before. She really had to get a grip.
Expertly pinning up her hair so that it would fit under her hat, she took time to apply her makeup before dressing in her number one uniform, determined to present herself in the best possible light.
‘You’ll do, girl,’ she said to the mirror and forced a smile as she headed downstairs.
The police station’s rear yard was packed with unfamiliar vehicles and she was forced to leave her car in one of the bays at the front, designated ‘Visitors Only’. The incident-room at the top of the building was in full swing, with a bank of computers, a couple of photo copiers and white boards bearing scribbled notes and scenes of crime pictures, already in situ. A plainclothes officer standing by the coffee machine with a plastic cup in one hand gave her an appraising glance as she made her way to the senior investigator’s office at the far end and his lecherous glance gave her a much needed boost. At least she hadn’t lost her pulling power completely then?
There were three of them in the cramped room; Sharp hadn’t been invited, it seemed. The DI, chewing as usual, leaned against one wall, jacketless, with part of his rumpled shirt hanging out over his trousers and one of his blue braces so badly twisted that Kate desperately wanted to straighten it for him. It was obvious from the look of him that he hadn’t been to bed yet and his eyes were heavy and slightly bloodshot.
The second man, seated on the edge of the desk, swinging his legs, could not have been more different. In his late forties and smartly dressed in an expensive looking blue suit and highly polished black shoes, his dark saturnine face with its slightly lopsided mop of jet black hair reminded her of pictures she had seen of Adolf Hitler, minus the moustache. The dark eyes that studied her as she entered the room after a peremptory knock were penetrating and analytical and the brief smile that was directed towards her had about as much empathy as that of a stone statue.
‘Ah, Sergeant Hamblin, I believe,’ he said, pre-empting Roscoe’s introduction and holding out a slim pale hand as he slid off the desk to greet her.
Kate took his hand warily, expecting the handshake to be limp and effeminate, but discovered that it was just the opposite and winced as it crushed her fingers in a vice-like grip.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Ansell,’ he said. ‘I have been appointed 2 i/c in this case.’
She nodded, knowing the name immediately from the ‘bush telegraph’ that bandied the names of notable senior officers about regularly throughout the force. Ansell was a man to be reckoned with, she’d heard. A recent import from the Met, with a reputation as a ruthless, ambitious tactician, he was known to have the Chief Constable’s ear and would, it was rumoured, cut his best friend’s throat – if he had one – to get to t
he next rung on the ladder.
He now motioned towards the third man, a rotund red-faced individual with a bald freckled pate and restless blue eyes. ‘Detective Superintendent Maurice Willoughby. Mr Willoughby will be – ah – leading the investigation as the senior investigating officer.’
Kate smiled faintly this time. She knew of Willoughby too. Newly appointed to CID from the Bristol area, his reputation as an indecisive and sycophantic grandee had earned him the nickname ‘Ethelred’ after the Saxon king, Ethelred the Unready. The way Ansell had introduced himself first, despite the other’s senior rank, indicated that the DCI would be calling all the shots, with Willoughby rubber-stamping his decisions. The Detective Super was just along for the ride and, from his slightly pained expression, it was obvious that he knew it. They had to be short of detective superintendents, she mused, to have brought him out of the closet.
‘Do sit down, Sergeant,’ Willoughby said, speaking for the first time and colouring up as he did so, no doubt anxious to be seen to be leading the meeting, but feeling self-conscious and under-valued.
She nodded again and sat down in the chair he swung across the room towards her. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she replied politely. ‘You wanted me at the 1400 hours briefing.’
Willoughby threw a quick glance at Ansell, then cleared his throat, obviously knowing very little about it. ‘Ah, that,’ he said. ‘Yes, it would be most helpful, but I … er … we wanted to have a chat with you first, seeing as you seem to be linked into things.’
He looked at Ansell again. ‘Perhaps Mr Ansell would—’ he began, breaking off in mid-sentence and dropping into a nearby chair.
Ansell returned to his vantage point on the desk and stared down at her, mentally dismembering her like an assembled Lego model, while Roscoe, whose gum chewing had slowed appreciably, watched with narrowed eyes. ‘Two years ago, you were a key player in Operation Firetrap, I believe?’ the DCI said.
