Streamed to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  So he may well live on that housing estate. Parks up on that road there then carries them through the woods. Might be worth putting a few undercovers out there tonight.

  He scribbled that down to remind him to do that in a bit, then changed his mind and went into the main office, instructing Villier, who hadn’t gone home yet, damn her, to get that sorted. She huffed, her cheeks ballooning with her expelled breath, but she must have been too tired to employ her usual waspishness because she offered no further protest.

  Back in his office, Langham thought of all the high-rises, whether there were even any on that estate. As he recalled, there weren’t, unless he included the two-storey flats.

  “No, Cheryl had said she was several floors up,” he muttered.

  He studied the map some more, casting his gaze to the left—to an estate that housed mainly council tenants. Plenty of high-rises there, cheap accommodation taking up less space, piss-stinking rat-holes. And many of them were. Drugs and prostitution were rife there, the main street through the estate riddled with women strolling up and down the pavement after dark. No nice kids out playing there—fuck no—and if kids were out, they wouldn’t be playing and they weren’t nice. Selling small folds of crack on the corners, more like, their main customers the sex workers themselves. Anything to get the women through the night, through the customers. Then there was The Stick, a patch of ground tucked away behind the railway bridge, where drugs were sold and taken and the homeless huddled around the proverbial empty oil drums filled with pitiful excuses for fires.

  She’d mentioned medicine. A syringe.

  Langham got up and went back to the main room. Stood leaning against the wall, watching everyone working. His mind spun with information, him wanting to grab at snippets that were too fast for him to catch—snippets he knew were significant but, because he didn’t know what the hell they were, he couldn’t figure out what he needed to latch on to. Then one of those snippets drifted out of the crowd, zooming around, screeching that it needed someone, anyone, to take note and listen.

  Jesus. Fucking hell, why didn’t I see that before?

  “Anyone been to The Stick yet?” he called out.

  Mumbles of: No time… Thought someone else was doing it… Sorry, sir…

  “Well, someone needs to. She’s being drugged. Best to strike The Stick off our list so we can think on where else this fucker’s getting his stuff from.”

  The doctors’ surgeries and hospitals hadn’t thrown up any leads. Amazingly, no young man had the combination of blond hair, green eyes, and the tendency to only work on weekends. He hadn’t ruled those places out, though. This man might well work during the week, and until Langham had proof that he didn’t, he’d have to go on the assumption that the killer held down a full-time job—or wasn’t even employed at all.

  He moved to turn back to his office, but another thought had him pausing. “Anyone out at the field opposite Morrisons?”

  More varied answers: Not sure, sir… Didn’t see the point when he has someone abducted already, sir… Didn’t think he’d bother going for another one while he has Witherspoon, sir…

  He sighed.

  If one more person calls me sir tonight…

  “Well, send a couple out anyway!” he shouted, frustrated and ready to punch the first unfortunate sod to get in his face. “Specifically have a pair of you on the estate behind the forest. Go out in casual clothes, walk around like you live there. Get a feel for the fucking place. Stand around at the point where the estate meets the forest, chat like you’re just taking a breather, and have a good gander at the route he might be taking once he enters the forest. While he has Witherspoon, now’s the chance to go there without him copping on to us.”

  “Who should go?” someone asked.

  “Fuck me sideways. Think about it. Shitty estate, filled with the younger generation. So, two of you who could pass for twenty-somethings, all right? Get clothes from the undercover store. Just get on with it.”

  He stormed back to his office. Oliver was awake, staring at the wall behind Langham’s desk, his face pale, his hands shaking.

  Jesus fucking Christ, she’s made contact…

  Langham went to his chair and sat, though God knew how he’d manage to stay put. Oliver continued to study the wall, his eyes glazed. He fiddled with the zip of his lightweight jacket.

  Langham swallowed. Waited. Swallowed again.

  As Oliver twitched, Langham bit his tongue. Oliver narrowed his eyes then sighed, as if he tried to understand, to make sense of the data.

  “He’s got a doll,” Oliver said. “A fucking creepy-arsed doll.”

  Langham leant forward, clasped his hands. Stared at the gouge in the desk, at the biscuit crumb and dust he’d failed to get rid of.

  A doll. What the hell? Were they dealing with a woman? No, no, they couldn’t be—unless that woman had the ability to grow stubble. So what man had the need for a doll? Why did he have a doll?

  “It’s staring at her,” Oliver said. “Watching while he…he dances to this…this horrible music. It tinkles. Like a music box, except it isn’t right. It’s just not right. Creepy. Makes me think of horror movies, the bit where the music starts just before something nasty happens. He’s got Cheryl’s bra and knickers on over his clothes.”

  What?

  So they had a man who liked wearing women’s clothing, spoke like a lady, and had a doll. What, did he think he was a woman, was that it? Was he transitioning?

  “He kept stroking her cheek,” Oliver said, “calling her a good girl and telling her she had to go home.”

  Langham wanted to ask when, and why Cheryl was allowed home and the other women weren’t. He kept his mouth shut, though, shifting his gaze to the open packet of biscuits he hadn’t put back in the drawer. He took one out. Nibbled on it. Stale.

  Oliver sighed. “Except it isn’t home. He means death.”

  Oh God…

  “He gave her some medicine, but she didn’t take it. Didn’t inject herself. She put the needle between her toes and squeezed the drug into the mattress.” Oliver paused, waiting as though he was being spoken to or he was deciphering images. “Cheryl? Is that you?”

  She’s talking. She’s got through! Langham resisted punching the air. His heart rate sped up, adrenaline streaking out of the starting gate and romping down the stretch. It sent him momentarily giddy, and he inhaled and exhaled a few deep breaths to calm himself.

  “You what?” Oliver said. “Say that again. Right…yes, try and keep talking to me. I’ll help you through this, tell you what to do. Yes, you did the right thing with the needle. Pretend you’re asleep, okay? Whatever happens, just do that—unless you can get away safely. Don’t try anything stupid, though, all right? Let him do his thing.”

  Langham tossed his biscuit on the desk then drew a notepad across and wrote everything down.

  “No, he won’t hurt you,” Oliver said. “Remember the others? None of them had been hurt. None…touched like that. He’s not interested in getting thrills via sex, so stop panicking about it. What? Repeat that for me… No, I don’t know why he’d want to wear your things…” He sighed. “Right, so he hasn’t worn them before now? Okay, fine. Just… No, don’t panic. Stay where you are, do what you’re doing. We’re all working on this. We’ll get to you before it goes much further. We’ll find you. So long as you can stay in contact with me, we’ll find you.”

  That’s a promise you shouldn’t be making. We might find her all right, but it could be too late. We know her destination, know where she’ll bloody end up, but we need to find her before the water finishes her off.

  “Fuck!” Oliver said. “Cheryl? Are you there?”

  Langham looked up at Oliver, who snapped out of his trance and smacked the side of his fist onto the desk.

  “She’s gone. Fucking hell, she’s gone.” Oliver stared at him, clearly trying hard to keep his emotions in check. “We have to…” He jumped up. Paced. Head bent, hand up to his mouth. “We
have to get out there. Do something. Find her.”

  They’d been through this before. And, as before, Langham told him they were doing all they could, and haring out into the night with no idea where they needed to be wasn’t going to help. And shit, earlier today, he’d ordered a couple of young officers to hang about on that estate. He quickly put a call through to the main office, getting someone to get them back for now. The last thing they needed was uniforms prowling around down there and scaring the man off. If he spotted them, he might change his dump site, then they’d be well and truly fucked in finding Cheryl. The two he’d told to wear civilian clothing could stay.

  “I hate this part!” Oliver flung himself into his chair so it scooted backwards and barged into a filing cabinet. “I feel so helpless!”

  “I know you do,” Langham said. “So do I, but we have no bloody idea where she is.” He brought Oliver up to speed on what had been happening while he’d dozed. “So we’ve got things covered. Nothing else we can do.”

  The phone rang. Langham leant over the desk to answer it.

  “The staff at Morrisons café have been interviewed, sir.”

  “What the hell are you still doing here, Hastings? Didn’t you hand everything over on shift change?” Langham asked.

  “I did, but I’ve got caught up in this and I…I’m not tired. Thought I may as well stay until I am.”

  “Right.” Good lad. “Got anything for me?”

  “Seems that man who was asking questions at the newspaper also went to Morrisons. He eats there most mornings, apparently, with some other bloke.”

  “Okay.” Who is that fucker? “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. We think we have him.”

  “What, you think you know who he is?”

  “No. As in, we have him downstairs. He’d been to the field this evening, asking people questions, whether they’d seen Cheryl and whatnot. And he found her dog.”

  “What!” Jesus! Why hadn’t the uniforms found the fucking dog? Had they even gone out there yet? “Where is he?”

  “Interview room two, sir, waiting for you.”

  * * * *

  Langham sat across the table from the same man who had been the star of the newspaper CCTV footage. He looked shaken up—that or he was coming down from an adrenaline rush. He’d certainly been busy today, gallivanting about, poking his nose into things he shouldn’t. Langham briefly entertained the idea he might be the one they were looking for but dismissed the thought. Although he could wear a wig and contact lenses to make people think he was blond and green-eyed, it didn’t sit right. Didn’t feel right. This man didn’t appear to have it in him to abduct women. Bit of a wet blanket. Still, he’d been wrong before and decided to wait and see what the interview brought up.

  “So, explain to me again, Conrad, why you’ve been asking questions,” Langham said.

  Oliver watched through the two-way glass behind him, ready to pick up on anything that might present its ugly self.

  Conrad Leddings sighed. “I was supposed to meet Cheryl for a date. I’ve liked her for ages. We exchanged numbers, and I thought…I thought she liked me.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “She works in the café in Morrisons. I see her on the early morning shift. You know, breakfast and whatnot. Does evenings an’ all.”

  “Go on.”

  “But she didn’t turn up for the date. I went home, thought nothing much about it except maybe she didn’t like me after all. Okay, being honest, I was well gutted, but I can’t force her to like me. Then the next day I went to Morrisons, and she wasn’t there. I knew something was wrong. She’s always there, and what with that weirdo going around taking women… Please, there’s something going on.”

  It isn’t him.

  “Yes, something’s most definitely going on.” Langham waited for the shocked, panicked look to clear from Conrad’s face, then he went on. “Tell me what you’ve done today.”

  “It isn’t me, I swear to God it isn’t me!” He clenched then unclenched his fists on the table, as though fighting to remain calm. He definitely had the air of panic about him, the air of a concerned person, not that of a killer wanting to involve himself in the investigation on the police side.

  “All right.” Langham cleared his throat. “So, tell me what you’ve done today.”

  Conrad bounced one leg, and his body shook. His mouth downturned as though he held back tears. “I said to my friend something was up, and he said she was probably ill, and I thought he might be right, because people do get ill, don’t they, but something inside told me different.”

  Langham tilted his head, raising his eyebrows so the man stopped waffling and told him what he damn well wanted to hear.

  “Anyway,” Conrad said, “I went to her house—she’d told me where she lived after we’d arranged our date. No one in. I knocked on the doors either side of her place and asked the neighbours if they’d seen her.”

  “And had they?” Yes, taking her dog out for a walk, as usual. Uniforms had already been there and found this out.

  “Yes. When she went out to take her dog for a walk.”

  “And then what did you do?” You went to the newspaper.

  “I went to the newspaper. She hadn’t called in sick. So then I went to Morrisons, asked if they’d seen her, and no one had. She hadn’t been there this morning—she always waits on us, always serves us breakfast and a pot of tea and…” Conrad swallowed. Blinked a few times.

  “Carry on.”

  “I got to thinking. And I waited until this evening to go the field and ask people there if they’d seen her. One man had—the night her neighbours had last seen her taking the dog out. Said he’d seen her about eight. He didn’t seem weird, not the kind who’d take a woman, and anyway, he had his kid with him. Little girl of about seven.”

  People with kids and family lives still take women and kill them, Conrad. “Then what did you do?”

  “I went over to where the forest starts. I don’t know why, just felt the need to do it. I walked through for a bit, not far, and saw this lump. Made my guts roll over, I can tell you, like I just knew something was up with that. I went closer and…oh God, it was a dog. Big thing, long-haired. And I knew it was hers, you know?”

  Yes, I know. “Then you called the police.”

  Conrad nodded. Leg still bouncing. Body still shaking. “They’ll be looking for her now, won’t they? Please tell me they’ll be looking.”

  “Oh, yes. They’ll be out there all night.”

  “Oh, thank God. No one seemed to want to listen to me. No one seemed to care, not even David.”

  “Who’s David?”

  “My friend. I meet him for breakfast most mornings.”

  “Good sort, is he, this David?”

  “Yes, yes, he is. Nice man.” Conrad absently stared at the tabletop. “So will you let me know? I mean, if things…if she’s…” His lip wobbled.

  “We will.”

  “And that psychic bloke? The one who’s always in the paper. Is he on the case?”

  “He is.”

  “Thank you, God,” Conrad said, gazing at the ceiling.

  “And believe me,” Langham said, “if the ‘psychic bloke’ gets anything, we’ll be on it immediately. We’ll find the man responsible, no doubt about it.” We just don’t know when.

  “But what about Cheryl? Will you find her before he…before…?”

  I fucking hope so.

  Langham gave a tight smile, deciding not to answer that particular question. He stood. “We’ll be in touch at some point, Mr Leddings. I have to go now, sort through some things, but I’ll send another detective on my team down to go through this with you again. You know, a full description of the man with his daughter, things like that. Maybe get an identikit done of him. That’ll be a help in eliminating him from our enquiries should we come across him ourselves at some point. I appreciate your help, but it would be better if you didn’t go around doing any detective work your
self now. Stay out of it—you wouldn’t want us thinking it was you, would you?”

  Conrad shook his head. “No, no. It isn’t me. No, I wouldn’t want that.”

  Good job I don’t think you’re our man then, isn’t it.

  Langham gave a curt nod and left the room.

  Chapter Eight

  Leaning on the bedroom doorjamb, David waited twenty minutes for the medicine to kick in. By the deepness of Cheryl’s breathing, she was ready for transportation. It was earlier than he usually went out, but that was okay, he had yet to wash her so that would take up some minutes.

  He tweaked the bra strap and smiled as it snapped back onto his shoulder. Did the same with the side of the knickers. That snap wasn’t as satisfactory, but no matter.

  It was time to bathe her in bleach again, get as much of this place off her as he could. If anything remained after that, the stream would hopefully take care of it. And it had with the other women, so he shouldn’t have thought ‘hopefully’. The stream would sort things. It was his accomplice, the element that put the cherries firmly on top of the cakes he made. He smiled at thinking of himself as a baker. Maybe when he got home later he’d make a batch of biscuits and sit and eat them on his bed with Sally.

  He bent down to pick her up. Took her into the bathroom. Lowered the toilet lid then sat her on top so she faced the bath and could watch everything he did. Then he returned to collect Cheryl. She was easy to carry, so light. She still smelt of bleach from her last bath, although the scent had faded a bit, the aroma of sleep and inactivity masking it.

  He put her in the bath, the beautiful smell of new bleach in the hot water filling his nose. It reminded him of swimming pools, of the strong stench of chlorine he’d loved so much as a kid when they’d had lessons in the school pool. He let her go, the level low enough that her face didn’t go under but high enough that it reached her collarbones. Satisfied she was submerged adequately, he bent her legs then placed his hand on her head. Took a second to fully feel the tickle of her hair on his skin. Her brittle, bleach-ruined blonde hair. He pushed her beneath the water so her head was completely under. Every bit of her needed a bleaching, so he kept his hand on her head and stared at his watch until fifteen seconds had passed.