by Clare Revell
As they approached Headley Road, Isabel glanced at him. “Can we stop back at the department store?”
“Sure.” Changing lanes, he pulled into the car park. “I’m assuming you want to check out your lingerie theory.”
“You’re not one of these men who are scared stiff at that idea, are you?”
Zander shook his head. “Not my ideal shopping trip, but this is work, right?”
“So long as you don’t ask my size, yeah.”
He shot her a wicked grin. “Now why would I want to know that?” He got out of the car and walked with her inside the store. They made their way up the stairs to the first floor. “You know what you’re looking for, right?”
Isabel nodded. “Red, lace, expensive.” She moved across to a rack of red bras and began to go through them.
Zander wouldn’t admit to being out of his comfort zone. But he was. Way, way, out of it. Something occurred to him. “Matching, yes?”
She glanced over. “Yeah.”
Zander crossed to the far wall, where a display stand had caught his eye. How many different colours were there? He lifted off a matching set in red. “Is?” He held it up. “What do you think?”
His evil partner burst out laughing. “Not your colour.”
Zander’s face flamed; he could feel the heat rising.
“Mind you, it matches your face.” Isabel crossed over to him. “That could be it. One sec.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the photos. “Yes, that’s it.”
Zander peered at the price tag. His eyebrows rose in shock. He’d never complain about the price of his clothes again. “How much? Is that normal?”
Isabel checked where he pointed. “About right for a decent underwired bra, yeah. And of course the knickers match.” She took the set from him and then headed to the till.
Zander followed her, hoping she’d take the lead.
Isabel put the lingerie on the cash desk. She pulled out her ID. “Can you tell me if anyone has bought several of these recently? The sizes would be different, but the colour and make are the same?”
“How many sets are we talking?”
“Ten. And a cash buyer.” Isabel glanced at Zander. “Assuming he shopped the same as he did with the towels.”
The assistant looked up. “March third. Cash buyer. Ten sets of matching lingerie in red. Did you want the sizes?”
Isabel nodded. “Please.”
Twenty minutes later, Zander pulled out of the car park and set off back towards Isabel’s house. “Are you hungry?” he asked, glancing across the car to where Isabel sat by the door, although she seemed more relaxed than normal. Perhaps his pledge to keep his hands where she could see them was helping overcome her fear of being alone in a car with a male driver. “You didn’t eat anything at the church. That half a tiny sandwich didn’t count.” He paused. “Yes, I noticed you put the plate down and ignored it.”
“No, not hungry right now. Maybe later.” She leaned her head against the window. “What’s the time?”
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Three fifty-five. Why?”
“I’m meeting that fire investigation officer at four. Had you forgotten?”
No, he hadn’t. But he was really hoping she had. “Is, I’m not sure that is a good idea. Not today.”
“I have to do this.” Her voice wobbled. “She never dozed during the day and she never left things plugged in—except the fridge freezer. She turned off the cooker when she wasn’t using it. She unplugged the TV, kettle, toaster, and microwave. There’s no way she’d have overloaded an extension lead.”
“OK. So let me come with you.”
“Why?”
“Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Besides, I’m not sure you’ll take everything he says in right now.” He parked outside Isabel’s place, just as a red fire brigade car pulled up across the road.
Isabel picked up her bag and crossed the road, Zander keeping pace with her.
Three firefighters stood outside the house. “DC York?”
Isabel nodded. “Yes, this is my partner DC Ellery.”
“David James, we spoke on the phone. This is Jared Harkin and Kacie Ingles. They responded to the fire.”
Isabel nodded. “We met at the hospital.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Jared said. “Some of us attended the service at the cemetery this morning. We’d have liked to have been to the church as well, but were called to a shout.”
“Thank you for coming,” Isabel said quietly.
Mr. James lifted the tape and they walked underneath it and up to the front door.
Isabel wrinkled her nose at the smell as the door opened. Everything inside was black and charred.
“Mind where you step,” Jared told her. The torches of the three firefighters illuminated the interior of the building.
Isabel glanced around the hallway.
“The fire started in here,” Mr. James headed into the bedroom. “There was no sign of incendiaries.”
“In here? Are you sure?” Isabel turned around, a frown marring her face.
“Yes.” Mr. James pointed to the burned-out extension lead. “You can see phone charger, computer lead, convection heater, radio—”
“No. Wait a minute,” Isabel cut him off. “Where did you find her?”
“In the sitting room, asleep in her chair.”
Isabel spun around, biting her lip.
Zander knew that look only too well. “What’s up, partner?”
“Everything. Don’t you see? This is the spare room. She didn’t own a computer or a mobile phone. It’s been really hot. She wouldn’t need a heater, plus she has radiators anyway.” She stabbed her finger at the one on the wall under the window. “She had an old-fashioned rotary dial landline that plugged into the wall. It’s in the hall. Did you find this phone or laptop or anything else?”
“No. Just the overloaded extension lead.”
“Hello?” A male voice echoed from outside the house.
Zander strode outside. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Patrick Villiers. I live here, well lived. I lodge with Mrs. Kowalski.”
Isabel appeared at his side. “Since when?”
“About three weeks ago now. I’ve been away on business. But my things were in the spare room. Where’s Mrs. Kowalski?”
Zander studied Isabel. “Go home. I’ll deal with this and be over as soon as I’m done.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be in with the fire department.”
Zander nodded and turned back to Mr. Villiers. He pulled out his ID. “DC Ellery. I’m afraid Mrs. Kowalski is dead. She died in the fire.”
“Oh, that’s such a shame. She was a dear. Let me have the room for next to nothing. Do they know what caused it?”
“Overloaded power socket,” Zander said. “I’ll need to ask a few questions.”
Twenty minutes later he finished the statement and had Mr. Villiers sign it. “I’ll be in touch if we need anything more. Do you have somewhere you can go for tonight?”
“Yes.” Mr. Villiers walked back to his car, climbed in, and drove away without so much as a goodbye.
Zander frowned. Maybe Isabel was right and this wasn’t as simple as it looked. The firefighters left, and Isabel walked slowly over to him. “All done,” he said. “You?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, face downcast. “Didn’t solve anything. Not even sure they believed me.”
Compassion and worry filled him. She really looked awful. “Will you be all right on your own tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure? I can put Rosa off. We could order take out and watch something stupid on the TV.”
Isabel shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“You want a lift?”
Isabel looked at him. “I live over the road. It’ll take me five seconds to walk home.”
He smiled dryly. “I meant to work in the morning?”
<
br /> She shook her head. “No, the bus is fine.” Before he could argue, Isabel headed across the road and into her small apartment, shutting the door firmly behind her.
~*~
Isabel was at work by six-thirty the following morning. Unable to sleep, she’d decided to do something constructive. Pleased to find her desk was no longer taped off, she settled into her chair and checked her computer. She spent an hour narrowing down the New Wine list further and then hit print. Next she tackled the Keswick list the same way.
Zander arrived at almost half past eight, just as the printer whirled into action again. “Morning,” he said.
“Afternoon,” Isabel replied.
“Night,” he chuckled. “See you tomorrow.” He draped his coat over the back of his chair and pointed to her desk. “Been here long?”
“A while. I’m about to start compiling the two lists.”
“Want a hand?”
“That would be great. There’s about two hundred and fifty on the New Wine list and three hundred on the Keswick list. That’s women in the Berkshire, Bedfordshire, and Oxfordshire areas. We need to cull it down to women appearing on both lists. I emailed you a copy of both documents. Figured I’d cross off on the paper one and delete off the computer one, so we have a legible list at the end.”
Zander moved to the kettle. “But first order of business. Tea. Did you eat anything this morning?”
Isabel groaned. “What is this thing you have about food? I had a bowl of cereal at about four o’clock this morning.”
Zander dumped a packet of biscuits on her desk. “Eat them while you work.”
Isabel pulled a face. “Hate fly cemeteries.” She tossed them onto Zander’s desk. “You eat them.”
An hour later, they had trimmed the list to one hundred and sixty women across the three counties who were due to attend week two of New Wine and the Keswick Convention.
Isabel printed it off. She highlighted the four dead women. “We need to contact the other forces and give them a heads up. Any one of these women is a potential victim.”
Zander nodded. He loosened his tie. “Is it warm in here or just me?”
Isabel shrugged. “I’m just hot anyway.”
He snorted. “Hey, I have a hot partner.”
Isabel scrunched up a sheet of paper and threw it at him. “She shoots, she scores.”
Zander threw it back, laughing. “And he misses. Pinktieman has to bow to the superior aim and paper throwing skills of Superbell.”
“When you two have quite finished…” DI Holmes sounded both amused and irritated—a trait only he could pull off. “The Chief Super wants a word.”
The smile vanished from Zander’s face. “Now?”
“Yes, now. He’s in my office. Bring your files.”
Isabel shook her head. “Sir, we’re in the middle of something. We need to—”
“What you need is to get into my office with all your files relating to the Slayer now.” DI Holmes voice had dropped an octave, a sign he was losing his patience. Never a good thing this early in the morning.
“Sir,” Zander muttered. He slapped all the files into one pile, glanced sideways at Isabel, and shook his head slightly.
Isabel assumed he meant drop it and do what the Guv wanted. She sighed. Grabbing a pen, she scribbled a note to remember what needed doing, and grabbed her files. She followed the men into DI Holmes office.
A tall officer in dress uniform stood by the desk. He cut an imposing figure, with broad shoulders, close cropped hair, and lots of ribbons. His skin was either tanned or he hailed from the Mediterranean or the Caribbean somewhere.
Isabel avoided his gaze, not sure whether she should curtsey or salute or do nothing.
DI Holmes shut the office door. “Sir, this is DC Isabel York. Isabel, this is Chief Superintendent Clydesdale. You already know DC Ellery.”
“Indeed I do. How did the sergeant’s exams go?” His accent confirmed he was from somewhere around the Caribbean.
“Just have to wait and see.”
“Isabel, how are you finding CID?”
Isabel struggled not to shudder as the stern gaze fell on her. Something in the way he looked at her put her off kilter. “It’s different, but good.”
“It’s got the old grey matter working?”
“Yes, sir. But I meant different to being on the beat.”
CS Clydesdale tilted his head, his gaze taking her in, and swallowing her whole. It might as well just have been him and her in the room.
Isabel wrapped her arms around her middle. She could almost feel the walls close in, and she wanted to run as far away as she could possibly get as soon as she could.
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” CS Clydesdale said slowly. “In fact, the likeness is incredible.” He pointed to the chairs. “Please sit, let’s get this meeting underway.”
She dropped into the chair with relief. At least now there was a desk between them and her legs weren’t in danger of giving way beneath her.
“So, tell me about the Prayer Slayer.”
Zander began to speak, just as well, as Isabel was incapable of doing so. “There have been four victims, so far. Iona Kevane, Sally Rollin, Ashlyn Orkney, and Brit Yardley. All women were found bound and gagged, with guilty written on their foreheads. Each seems to have broken one of the Ten Commandments, so far in order. They have also been dressed in identical outfits.”
“And the paintings?”
“Ten paintings depicting the Ten Commandments were stolen from a local art gallery. The corresponding painting was found at each crime scene. Which is why we believe there will be ten murders in total.”
“The media are having an absolute field day over this,” CS Clydesdale muttered. “Making us look like inept fools. Do you have any suspects?”
Zander shook his head. “No.”
“Cause of death?”
“No, sir,” Isabel said. “But we do have a couple of working theories.”
CS Clydesdale thumped his fist on the desk, making Isabel jump. He pushed up on his forearms, leaning across the small space. “Theories are no good to anyone!”
Isabel pulled back in her chair, digging her nails into her hands. For a moment, she was right back in the hot seat Farrell reserved just for her, the instant before his hand made contact. She wanted to run, but only cowards ran.
DI Holmes cleared his throat. “Sir, shouting won’t help. The only clues we have are the postcards he’s sending Isabel that arrive twenty-four hours in advance.”
“Tell me!” CS Clydesdale demanded.
“I…ummm…” Isabel’s voice died in her throat.
“Speak up, woman!”
She coughed, somehow finding her voice and persuading it to work. “They depict the location where the women are found. They arrive by post a day in advance. But we can’t narrow down the place fast enough.”
“Straight to your desk, by all accounts. Do you know how?”
“Post…”
“Fingerprints? I assume you dust them for prints?”
“Just mine and Zander’s.” Isabel wanted to vanish. Why would the ground never open up and swallow her whole when she wanted it too?
“Then I suggest the pair of you stop contaminating the evidence!” CS Clydesdale roared. His eyes bulged and a vein stood out on the side of his temple “This bloke seems to have picked on you for some reason. You need to find him and get him off the streets. What else do you know?”
“Sir, it’s hardly Isabel’s fault,” Zander started.
CS Clydesdale shot him a look and shut him up.
“Actually, sir,” DI Holmes said. “I’m working closely with the both of them. We’re bagging everything that comes in and wearing gloves before we touch any of it.”
CS Clydesdale glowered. “I’m talking to the woman.”
Isabel tried explaining the New Wine link and made a hash of it. She couldn’t think straight with him shouting and pointing and getting in her personal sp
ace like this. “We were in the middle of correlating the two lists and considering sending out an alert to other forces and—”
CS Clydesdale snatched the folder from her hand and threw it to the desk in front of him. “We can handle it!” he snapped.
“Sir?” DI Holmes asked.
“There’s no need to complicate things by involving other forces. In fact, maybe this woman isn’t competent enough for this investigation at all. It’s her first case and been mishandled from the get go by the sounds of it.” CS Clydesdale rounded on DI Holmes. “In fact, Nathaniel, I suggest you take it away from her and give it to someone more competent. Assuming you have anyone capable in your department.”
Isabel bit her lip and blinked hard. She would not cry. Even as her stomach tied itself in knots and twisted, she pushed to her feet, and threw the files at Zander. “Then it’s all yours,” she whispered, and fled from the room. She paused at her desk long enough to grab her bag, then headed for the nearest exit.
DS Philips raised his head and glanced her way. “Isabel, where are you going?”
“Bus stop,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes. “Then home. I’m not competent enough to work here.”
~*~
Zander pushed to his feet, beyond angry. “How dare you speak to her like that!” he yelled, not caring that it was a superior officer.
“Excuse me? Do you know who I am?” CS Clydesdale spluttered.
“I don’t give a monkey’s if you’re the Chief Constable,” Zander told him. “Isabel’s worked really hard on this case.”
“You could have fooled me. It’s been one messy disaster after another.”
“That’s as far from the truth as it’s possible to get.” Zander looked at DI Holmes, seeing a glimmer of appreciation in the man’s eyes. “Isabel worked out the link between New Wine, Keswick, and the murders. She also worked out the link between the foot washing, the white robes, and the apparent act of praying for forgiveness. If you’d given her a chance she’d have told you herself. Instead, you jumped down her throat, scaring her silly and making her forget herself.”
“She’s a woman and out of her depth.”
“That, sir, makes you a sexist swine!” Zander snapped. “She’s a woman, yes, but it’s her first case in CID.”
