by Clare Revell
The DI cracked a slight smile. “Try it and I’ll have your guts for garters. Make Isabel some tea, and then go sit with her. This affects you just as much. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Yes sir.” Zander headed over to the kettle and flicked the on switch. It boiled quickly and he made three teas. He carried them into the Guv’s office.
Isabel sat hunched on a chair, arms tightly around her middle, still visibly shaking.
Zander held out a cup. “Here, drink this. I put lots of sugar in it. For shock.”
She took the cup. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Actually it’s not,” he replied, sitting beside her. “It’s well documented that shock leads to a drop in blood sugar. Thus you need strong, sweet tea or sugar water to replace it.” He smirked. “Yes, I ate the encyclopaedia for breakfast. Though, does anyone actually own one of those anymore?”
“You don’t,” she muttered, cradling the cup in both hands.
“How do you know?”
“You just said you ate it for breakfast. Thus, you no longer have one.” Isabel sipped the tea. “Sorry. Can’t stand the sight of blood or body parts.”
“There’s no need to keep apologising. You’re not the only one feeling horrible right now.” They fell into silence, watching through the glass window as SOCO began working.
DI Holmes came in, closing the door behind him.
Zander pointed to the desk. “Tea there, Guv. Lots of sugar. For shock.”
“Thank you.” He sat down and surveyed Isabel, while taking a large gulp of tea. “I have to ask you some questions.” He pulled over the pad of paper. “Best we do this now. Get it out of the way.”
Isabel shuddered. “I know. I was at my desk until about one thirty, one forty-five. Then I caught the bus to the morgue for the autopsy at three. I was working on files so you can check the time stamps on them. After the autopsy, I missed the bus, so started to walk in the rain. Zander picked me up. We got back here. He came to see you while I showered and changed as I was soaked. Came back up to the squad room, did a couple of things at my desk before I saw the package in my in tray.”
DI Holmes took notes as she spoke. He glanced up. “What did it look like?”
“Brown paper, handwritten, smudged postmark. It had part of a postcode on the back. The rest was smudged by rain. It’s on the desk. I didn’t think it was connected, so I didn’t wear gloves or bag it as I went along. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” DI Holmes looked at her. “Take a deep breath and think. What did the postcode say?”
“CR5. But I have no idea where that is.”
“Cousldon in Surrey,” Zander said. “Well, Old Cousldon anyway. Gramps used to live there, that’s how I know. His claim to fame was living opposite an actor who played a doctor on the TV. The Doctor actually.”
DI Holmes smiled faintly. “OK, go on.”
“I opened the paper,” Isabel said. “There was a Styrofoam box inside. The lid was a tight fit. I pulled the lid off and there was a… I dropped it.” She paused, voice wavering. “Is it Ashlyn’s?”
“The coroner will tell us for sure, but I imagine so.” DI Holmes leaned back in his chair. “When did you last check your in tray?”
“It was empty before I left the office to attend the autopsy. I’d been working on that list of New Wine attendees and reducing it down. Alone, incidentally. Then I emailed it to Zander, printed it off and left. I got it down to three-hundred-and-fifty women in the Berkshire area. We can winnow that down more tomorrow.” She paused. “Yes, I found Brit’s name on there as well. I need to crosscheck with the Keswick lists and narrow that one as well.”
“Alone?” DI Holmes asked.
“Yes,” Isabel answered quickly.
Zander shot her a look. Something was bugging her about that. She’d shoved the alone comment in almost as a mutter or an aside. Was she getting at him because he’d been out of the office? “What were you checking just now?”
“Feet washing.” Isabel glanced at him.
Zander snorted. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” She untied her hair and redid it. “Arend mentioned in the autopsy. All the girls had bare feet—spotlessly clean, bare feet. Now, if he’s killing them at the scene, which we think he is, they’d have to have mud or grass on the feet or at least dirt. Right? But there’s nothing. Brit’s feet were filthy, so she wasn’t wearing shoes before someone suggests that. The timeline means he was interrupted or at least disturbed, as time of death was the same as those two off duty idiots arriving at the park.”
“So he washes their feet,” Zander said. “That’s rather Biblical.”
“My notes are on my desk,” Isabel held his gaze. “According to the Internet, foot washing is part of many religious customs. It’s a form of baptism, which fits in with the white towelling robes he’s dressing the girls in. Confession of guilt, followed by foot washing or baptism, is prevalent in many customs around the world.”
DI Holmes sipped his tea. “OK.”
“Sir, these girls, women, are left praying for forgiveness along with a visual sign of their sin next to them, dressed in homemade baptismal robes, with clean feet. A public confession of guilt is inscribed on their bodies for us to see.”
“Are we looking for a priest then?” Zander wondered aloud. “Or a vicar or rabbi or…”
“I don’t know.” Isabel pulled her hair tighter. “But whoever he is, the Slayer probably thinks he’s saving these girls by killing them.”
5
Zander drove Isabel home. She still looked shaken and more than a tad green around the gills. Concern twisted at his gut. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah.” Again the answer came too fast.
“Hey, this is your partner asking, not your boss. You need to be honest with me, Isabel. We have each other’s backs. What you say in the car, stays in the car. So, are you sure you’re all right?”
“No, I’m not,” she whispered. “Not only is my secret, serial killer admirer sending me postcards, now he’s sending me body parts as well.” She sighed, shifted over towards the door a little more.
He frowned. Did he smell or something? “I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
“He needs to stop.” She folded her arms tightly across her middle. “He can pick on someone else now. I’m tired of it. Or he can just go away.”
Yep, something was bothering her big time besides the obvious tongue left lying on her desk. But now wasn’t the time to press the issue home. Instead he decided to ask about the other thing. “Is my driving that bad?”
“Huh?” Isabel looked at him, her eyebrows vanishing into her fringe.
“You’re on the edge of the seat and almost into the door. Sit any farther away from me and you’ll be outside the car.”
“Sorry.” But she remained jammed against the passenger door.
“Did you never fancy driving lessons? It’d be so much easier if we shared this?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I’m quite content with the buses and shank’s pony. The latter being so much cheaper.”
“And wetter,” he commented. He pulled up at a red light and turned to her. “You never wanted to learn?”
Isabel sighed. “I had eighteen lessons in my teens. Couldn’t do nineteen. That was enough.”
“I could teach you.”
“The lights are green, by the way.”
Zander pulled away. “I am willing to teach you.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp and again she answered far too quickly.
“Why?”
She shifted. “You want the truth?”
“Yes.” He too could answer fast. “Lying is a sin. Did you crash? Hit a child? Knock a wing mirror off a really expensive car? Run over a little old lady? Do the emergency stop so fast that the instructor went through the windscreen because he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?”
“No, no, no, no, and no.”
Zander pulled over into a layby and parked. He turn
ed off the engine and twisted in his seat to face her. Taking care to lean against the driver’s door so as not to crowd her, he folded his arms. “Then what?”
Isabel kept her face averted. She took one deep breath after another and huffed them out. “OK. The first couple of lessons were fine. Then the instructor started asking questions, innocent ones at first. Did I miss him between lessons? Did I wear tights or stockings? Then his hands would rest on my knee as I drove. Then they began to wander. It’s hard to concentrate on driving when you have to keep half an eye on the bloke next to you, and have no idea where his hands are going next.”
Zander fumed silently. Perhaps she’d tell him which school of motoring it was. He could have the bloke sacked, arrested, charged, something.
“He…refused payment for a couple of lessons. Then he tried to kiss me. I jumped out of the car and ran to the nearest house. They took me home and social services said they’d deal with it. I doubt they did because I never did hear anything. I wanted to check on the database to see if charges were ever filed, but figured that was an abuse of the system, so I didn’t.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t blame you for never wanting any more lessons with that jerk. There are female instructors out there. You could have changed motoring schools.”
“But not examiners. I checked.”
“Ah.” He unclenched his hands. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I will attend every lesson with you and vet the bloke myself.”
“No.” Isabel shook her head. “Thank you though. Buses are inconvenient at times, but maybe one day. We’ll see.”
“So, changing the subject.” He shifted in his seat and started the car. “Do you fancy dinner?”
“Now?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you always hungry?”
“Yeah. I have a hankering for a large, deep pan pizza with sausages, chicken, bacon, and pineapple.”
“Pineapple?”
He sighed. Did he have to defend pineapple on a pizza yet again? “Yes, Isabel. Pineapple does go on pizza.”
She laughed. “I know that. Just wasn’t sure you’d like it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Pineapple on pizza is Pinktieman’s go to dinner. His super-food. Popeye has spinach and Pinktieman has pineapple.”
“In that case, throw in a side of garlic bread with cookie dough ice cream and you’re on.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” Zander pulled a face.
Isabel screamed with laughter. “Not together. That’s garlic bread comma with cookie dough ice cream.” She tilted her head, looking at him wickedly. “Although as you can have chips and ice cream…”
“No,” he said quickly, indicating to pull back onto the main road. “It’s illegal. And if it isn’t, it should be. Don’t make me arrest you.”
~*~
Isabel picked up her second slice of pizza. Cheese trailed off the edge, and she caught it with her fingers. Stringy cheese was a sign of a good pizza. This one was Good with a capital G. Although she hadn’t imagined ever wanting to eat tonight, Zander’s company and teasing had made her feel better, and taken her mind off the awful afternoon.
“When do your test results come back?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
He nodded, reaching for his fourth slice. He glanced around. “You don’t have any family photos?”
“No family, apart from Gran, well Mrs. Kowalski. What about you?”
“Huge family,” he said, pulling the bacon off the pizza. “You’ve met some of them.”
“Yeah.”
“So four sisters, two brother-in-laws, five assorted nieces and nephews, parents, Gramps.”
“Christmas must be fun with everyone together.” She paused. “And when you were growing up.”
Zander shrugged. “We grew up on a farm. It’s just another day. The animals still need feeding and mucking out, crops need tending, just like they do on a Sunday.”
“Is that why you left? You hinted at it before.”
Zander leaned back and surveyed her over the top of the pizza slice. “Dad wanted me to be a farmer. Like him, and his dad, and his dad, and his dad, and so on. Five generations of Ellerys owned the farm. It’s not an easy life, and I hated it. I couldn’t see myself doing it day after day, week in, week out, for the rest of my life. Never mind tether a woman to it as well.” He paused. “Oh, yeah, I’m single. Another mistake. Can you imagine Rosa as a farmer’s wife?”
Isabel chewed thoughtfully. “Nope.”
“Me, either. And before you even attempt to imagine me in a wax jacket and wellies…”
She snorted. “Too late, been there, done that. So why choose policing? The hours are just as lousy. And the job just as bad, at times. Mainly outside, trudging through the rain and the mud.”
“I loved cop shows on the TV when I was a kid,” Zander told her. “They were always exciting. They worked things out, solved crimes in under an hour. They drove fast cars, had gorgeous women, brilliant partners, and always, without fail, saved the day.”
She rolled her eyes. “You drew the short straw there. I’m neither gorgeous nor brilliant.”
He flicked a piece of bacon at her. “Oy! No floccinaucinihilipilification thank you.”
Isabel dropped the pizza onto her plate. “Say that again. Slowly.”
“Floccinaucinihilipilification,” Zander repeated slowly.
“And what does that mean?”
“Thinking you’re worthless,” he said flatly. He studied her.
“I’m being honest. I’m not the prettiest person out there, and certainly not the brilliant sidekick TV heroes end up with.”
Zander winked. “You’re easier on the eye than Tony was. Some days he didn’t bother to shave.”
“You never do.”
He stroked his beard. “Aye, love, but this is deliberate and took a long time to perfect. Tony preferred designer stubble.” He took the last slice of pizza and offered her the tub of ice cream. “I’m glad you don’t.”
She grinned. “Well, my legs haven’t seen a razor in, ohh, maybe a week.”
Zander choked. “OK, that’s too much information.”
Isabel thumped him on the back. “You started the whole shaving conversation. ’Sides, when did you last shave your legs?”
“Never. And don’t offer to wax them either.”
Isabel winked. “Don’t give me ideas, mister. I shall ply you with pizza and ice cream and wait until you fall asleep on my sofa, then whip out the razor. Only it might be more fun to remove one eyebrow than to shave your legs. Anyway, changing the subject, apparently the Chief Super is in tomorrow. He wants us to give him an update on the case.”
“Oh, fun. What time? Maybe we can arrange to be out at the time.”
She laughed. “Wicked man. About three, I think.”
“Cool. We’ll leave at two thirty, and not come back for the rest of the day.”
Isabel sucked in a deep breath as tears filled her eyes. “Gran’s funeral is in the morning…”
Zander set his plate down and moved, sitting beside her. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Hey, it’s all right.”
She shook her head. How could she be sitting here laughing and joking when the only person in the world who cared about her was dead?
“Is. She wouldn’t want you to stop living, you know that.” Zander’s voice rumbled above her head. “She’d be the first person to tell you to buck up and get on with it.”
Isabel raised her head. “Is?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Kind of suits you because it’s short, like you.” He tweaked her nose and handed her a serviette. “Have you organised a car to take you there?”
“Couldn’t afford a car just for me,” she said, accepting the serviette. “I planned to take the bus from work after the briefing. It’s the internment at the cemetery at ten-thirty, then twelve at the church. Pastor Jack has organised a lunch thing in the hall afterwards.” She sucked in a deep breath and s
at up properly. “Iona’s husband was asking when her body would be released.”
“Not for a while. They can have a service, but no burial yet. I’ll call him tomorrow.” He picked up his pizza. “Actually a service might be an idea. We usually attend them, not only as a sign of respect, but the killer tends to go to them as well.”
“I thought that was just a TV cop show plot,” she said. “An easy way to wrap up the story, and catch the bad guy.”
“Nope.” Zander sighed as his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. “Hello, Rosa.” He paused. “That’s because I’m not at home. I’m at Isabel’s.”
Isabel picked up her drink and tried not to listen to Zander’s conversation as he and Rosa had what was obviously another fight. Several sips later, she exchanged the cup for the ice cream and sank her spoon into the tub. The first spoonful was delicious and swiftly followed by several more.
Zander slammed the phone onto the couch beside him. “Women! Present company excepted.”
“I don’t want to cause a problem,” Isabel began. “If you need to be with her…”
“You’re not the problem,” he muttered sharply. “She’s the one with the issues.” He tore pieces off the pizza on his plate.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Isabel wasn’t asking and Zander definitely wasn’t saying anything. She offered him the ice cream and a fresh spoon. “This cures everything.”
He took the spoon and dug a huge chunk from the middle of the tub. “Thanks.” He ate quietly. “So, tomorrow. I’ll pick you up about eight, and we can go over the notes from today before the funeral. How does that sound?”
“Good.”
“And maybe the New Wine lists, assuming the squad room is no longer a crime scene.”
After Zander left, Isabel locked up the house. She stared across the road at the ruins of Gran’s house. The fire report said it was accidental. A fault in the overloaded plug. But that didn’t make sense. Gran always unplugged everything at night, just in case, and had instilled the same thing into Isabel. So Gran leaving a dozen things in the same socket simply wouldn’t ever happen. And why would she doze during the day? She’d never done that either. Something wasn’t right. She needed to see the report for herself. Or at least see inside the house. She grabbed her phone and sent Zander a text.
