Twisted

by Robin Roughley

  'At least this time we have something to work with. I mean, her description should help us narrow the suspects.' Lasser offered.

  'That's presuming it's the same perp.'

  'Well, it's the same M.O.'

  'Come on, Lasser, it's hardly that, attacking women who are pissed and alone is hardly an original calling card.'

  Lasser looked out of the window; the rain was falling heavily again, the summer now nothing more than a sweat-drenched memory.

  Bannister picked up the pen and began to twirl it between his fingers. 'What about the victim?'

  'Too drunk to remember anything useful, in fact she doesn't even remember leaving the pub.'

  'Good God, what's wrong with these people, don't they read the papers?'

  'Yeah well, it's a good thing Erin Nash left when she did…'

  'You don't say,' Bannister replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Lasser kept his mouth closed.

  'Right,' Bannister pointed the pen at him. 'We need to check the Crown and Anchor see if anyone can remember anything about this Sarah Palmer.'

  'I've already sent Spenner and Rawlins up there.'

  'At ten o'clock in the morning?' Bannister asked in dismay.

  'Well, the place opens early and the clientele don't like to miss out on valuable drinking time.'

  Bannister threw him a sly grin. 'Your local is it, Sergeant?'

  Lasser could feel his face burning with embarrassment. 'I've had one or two in there.'

  'I bet you have. Right, I want you to go and see the first two victims. Give them the description; see if it stirs any memories. But tread carefully, these women have been through enough without having to put up with your lousy bedside manner.'

  Lasser didn't bother with a reply; instead, he clambered to his feet and headed for the door.

  'In fact take Coyle with you. She should help soften your rough edges.'

  'No problem,' Lasser snapped and grabbed the door handle.

  'One more thing, Sergeant, I'm going for a meal tonight with Suzanne, and she's asked if you'd care to join us?'

  Lasser turned and looked at his boss in amazement. 'Me?'

  'I know, there's no accounting for taste but she was insistent and I don't like to disappoint.'

  'But…'

  'Bring Medea, it should be fun.'

  Lasser blinked, 'Fun?'

  Bannister's face twitched. 'You could at least try to look as if you're pleasantly surprised.'

  When Lasser tried to smile, Bannister shook his head in disgust. 'For God's sake man is that the best you can do?'

  For that particular question, Lasser had no answer.

  6

  Reaching over, Robert grabs his medication from the bedside table and shakes out a couple of tablets. The air feels fetid, the central heating cranked up full making his body lethargic, his mind crackles with anxiety. With a grunt, he swings his legs out of bed, swallows the tablets and waits for the cluttered room to stop spinning. His dreams had been fevered, full of flashing blue lights and the screams of sirens. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd awoken drenched in medication sweat, convinced they were coming for him.

  Groaning, he drags a hand across his face and climbs slowly to his feet before hobbling to the bathroom. It was always the same, until the medication kicked in he felt ancient, made old before his time, like a tin man left out in the rain.

  He starts to urinate into the filthy porcelain bowl and then stuffs his dribbling member back into his boxers before peering at his reflection in the mirror. He stares until the room begins to dissolve, leaving nothing but his smeared image in the greasy glass. Gradually Robert begins to recognise the face, his eyes focus as the medication kicks in. An image of the girl slithers into his brain, the one with the blonde hair, and the bastard phone clasped in her hand.

  'Erin,' the voice reminds him, sounding like a teacher trying to instruct an imbecilic pupil by rote.

  As the previous night's events swarm into his mind, his eyes click as if going through some imaginary gears.

  Should have worn a mask; should have cut her fucking throat.

  He tried to picture the bitch in the alleyway, the one he was going to fuck and… his eyes spring wide, the word kill parades slowly through his brain in huge neon letters a thousand feet tall.

  He knows the name of the one who ruined his plans, and if he knows her name, he can find out where she lives. Slowly the smile creeps across his face, his eyes now burning with a fierce intensity. Find her and kill her, have some fun and kill her, make her beg and plead, just like the woman on the computer.

  'That's my boy,' he can hear the voice hiss in his head. 'Now you're cooking on gas.'

  Reaching down, he fumbles in his shorts and pulls out his growing member, eyes locked on his reflection as he masturbates into the bathroom sink.

  The voice grunts in disgust and vanishes.

  7

  Susan Coyle glanced nervously at Lasser as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in frustration. The council had spent the last three months digging up huge sections of the town as they laid new drains, causing traffic mayhem in the process.

  'So, how're you finding the job so far?' he asked in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence.

  'Fine.'

  It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, for every long-winded question he asked she would reply with a one-word answer.

  New recruits fell into two categories, those who wouldn't shut up, who felt that any form of silence had to be filled with inane conversation. Then you had the Susan Coyles of this world, who seemed too shy and fragile to survive in a job where you needed a thick skin and dubious morals.

  'And what about Wigan, have you got used to the glamorous lifestyle?'

  Susan shrugged. 'It's OK, I suppose.'

  'Don't tell me, you expected everyone to be dressed in flat caps and clogs?'

  He saw the blush creep across her cheeks. 'Something like that.'

  'Yeah well, I only wear mine at the Masonic Lodge,' he pulled up at the traffic lights before yanking on the handbrake. 'So, where are you from?'

  'Liverpool.'

  Lasser raised an eyebrow in surprise. 'What happened to the accent?'

  Her blush turned a deeper shade of red. 'I found people couldn't understand what I was saying, so I tried to lose it.'

  'Very wise,' Lasser agreed. 'Nobody gets far in this job with a regional twang.'

  'But you're a DS and you speak with a local accent.'

  Lasser threw her a disposable smile. 'Yeah, but DS is as far as I'm ever going to get.'

  'So, why don't you try and lose the accent?'

  'Unfortunately, Susan, you can't polish a turd.'

  For the first time she smiled back and he felt the atmosphere lighten.

  'I get a load of stick when I go back home, all my mates accuse me of selling out,' she said.

  'Take no notice; it never did McCartney any harm.'

  'Who?'

  He looked at her in disbelief. 'Never mind,' the lights changed and he swung left, heading out of the town centre. The road was lined with terraced houses, off-licences and the occasional sunbed shop.

  Five minutes later, they turned down a narrow side street and Lasser pulled up in front of a tidy bungalow.

  'What do you want me to do?' she asked, unclipping her seat belt.

  Lasser turned in his seat. 'We're here to interview Natalie Evans. Two weeks ago, she was subjected to a vicious attack. So, we take it easy, no dumb questions, let her do the talking.'

  Susan swallowed and nodded. 'I'll keep my mouth shut.'

  'No, if you see me putting my foot in it then give me a dig in the ribs.'

  The front garden was flagged, dotted here and there with huge terracotta pots full of waterlogged flowers.

  Lasser pressed the doorbell and stood back; Coyle hovered behind him as if playing a game of hide and seek.

  When the door opened a man in his sixties peered out, a caut
ious look on his weather-beaten face. 'Whatever you're selling we don't want any,' he pointed to a hand-written sign in the front window that simply said 'No thanks'.

  'Mr Evans?'

  The man's shoulders slumped, 'Coppers?'

  'Is it all right if we come in and have a word with Natalie?'

  'You can't, she's gone back home.'

  'Oh right, well do you have her address?'

  'Look, have you found that bastard, yet?

  Lasser could hear Coyle shuffling her feet behind him.

  'Unfortunately no, but…'

  'You lot make me sick, I mean, you have a nutter like that running around attacking young girls and all you can do is give my daughter grief.'

  Lasser fiddled with the fake cigarette in his pocket. 'I realise this is hard, Mr Evans…'

  Evans grabbed the doorframe as if to stop himself from falling. 'Don't give me that, you don't have a clue what this has done to my family,' his chin jutted out, tears shimmered in his pale-green eyes.

  'You're right, I don't, but if you could just give me the address I'll get out of your hair.' Inwardly Lasser winced as Evans ran a self-conscious hand across his bald head.

  'I'm telling you she knows nowt, I mean, how many times does she have to go over it?'

  'I just need to clear up a couple of things and believe me I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important.'

  Evans narrowed his eyes. 'What kind of things?'

  'I'm sorry but I am not in a position to disclose…'

  The door slammed in his face.

  Susan looked at him wide-eyed.

  Lasser thought about knocking again and then decided against it, the last thing he wanted was to end up brawling with the father of a rape victim.

  'Come on, let's go.'

  'But what about the address?' Coyle asked.

  'They'll have it on record, besides the other girl only lives five minutes away so we might as well try there.'

  Back in the car, Susan clipped the seat belt into place and folded her hands into her lap, 'That poor man.'

  Lasser looked at her; she was chewing at her top lip, her eyes agitated, he gave her six months at the most.

  8

  Erin perched on the edge of the bed watching as Sarah slept. By the time she'd been released from hospital it had been half-three in the morning. Graham was long gone; his face had been a strange amalgam of bemusement and fury as she told him of her plans to stay with Sarah for a few days.

  Sarah groaned and rolled onto her back, her eyes fluttered open and for a couple of seconds Erin could see the confusion written on her face, then blind panic took over and she scuttled back up the bed.

  'Sarah it's OK, you're safe,' Erin reached out and grasped her hand.

  'Erin, what are you doing here?' she asked, rubbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

  'I thought you might want some company for a few days?'

  Sarah swallowed and grimaced at the medication taste in her mouth before pushing her hair from her eyes. 'What about Graham?'

  'Graham's cool about it.'

  She gave Erin a twisted smile. 'Come on, this is me you're talking to. Besides I heard his little outburst at the hospital.'

  Erin sighed. 'I'm sorry; he was out of order…'

  'Don't be, after all he had a point…'

  'Listen, Graham was angry with me and he knows the easiest way to wind me up is by having a go at you.'

  Sarah dragged up a half smile. 'I'm glad you're here.'

  'Now, do you want a coffee?'

  'No thanks.'

  'Something to eat?'

  'He was going to kill me.'

  The words ripped Erin's breath away. 'I…'

  'He told me what he was going to do and if you hadn't come along…' Sarah closed her eyes; the tears slid free and slithered down her cheeks.

  Erin grasped her hand tighter. 'Can you remember anything else?'

  Sarah shook her head sadly. 'Like I told the police officer, I was drunk,' she paused and swiped the tears from her face, 'I'm always drunk,' she said, with a bemused look in her eyes.

  'So you don't know if you met him in the pub?'

  Sarah's forehead crinkled as she tried to remember. 'I don't think so.'

  Erin reached up and brushed the hair from Sarah's face.

  'I need to get myself sorted Erin. I know you think Graham was talking shit but he was right about the men. Getting pissed and sleeping around isn't going to make me happy is it?'

  She looked at Erin as if she could provide an answer that made any kind of sense.

  'Look, you were married to Paul for over five years and he was a complete bastard, everyone knew it…'

  'Everyone except me?'

  'No one blames you; marriages fail all the time. I mean, look at me and Graham.'

  Sarah turned to plump up a pillow, wincing at the pain in her side. 'Come on, I know he can be a bit of a tool but he's not all bad.'

  'That's half the problem,' Erin pursed her lips. 'If he was a total shit it'd be easy to leave him but he's not that stupid. I keep asking myself where I'll be in five, ten years' time and the thought that I could still be with Graham terrifies me.'

  Sarah stretched out her legs. 'I didn't realise things were that bad?'

  'That's because he loves to pretend, he wants the world to think we have the perfect marriage, anything less might affect his chance of promotion.'

  'God, look at the two of us, what a pair.' Sarah suddenly hiccupped; more tears broke free cutting through last night's foundation.

  Erin slid onto the bed, the next thing they were clinging onto one another, like castaways floating on the wreckage of their lives.

  9

  The door opened a fraction of an inch, 'Who is it?'

  'Karen, it's Sergeant Lasser, could I have a word?'

  A pair of frightened brown eyes appeared in the gap, 'Lasser?'

  'I came to see you last week,' he explained.

  They heard the sound of a chain drawn back and the snap of a bolt. Karen Miller looked a mess, her mousy-coloured hair hung limp and unwashed around her pixie-like face, her eyes were huge and constantly on the move as if trying to see everywhere at once.

  'Is it all right to come in, Karen?'

  She gave a brusque nod and pulled the door open, fetid air swept out to meet them. 'Hurry up,' she hissed, ushering them inside.

  As soon as they were over the threshold, she slammed the door, fingers skittering she snapped the bolt back into place. Karen flicked a suspicious look at Susan before pushing open the living-room door. The curtains were drawn, the room lit by a hundred-watt bulb that dangled from the ceiling on a grimy flex.

  'How are you, Karen?' Lasser asked as he slid onto the sofa.

  'Not good,' she whispered, before dragging a pack of cigarettes from the mantelpiece.

  Lasser noticed three ashtrays full to the brim with cigarette stumps, the air redolent with stale smoke.

  'Has anyone been to see you?' he asked.

  Karen lit up and took a huge pull on the cigarette, smoke trailed from her nostrils. 'No.'

  Susan tried not to grimace as the cancerous cloud drifted towards her.

  'What about your social worker?'

  'Don't wanna see 'em.'

  'That's fine but have they actually called at the door?'

  Another shake of the head.

  Lasser could feel the first stirrings of anger, Karen Miller was on the game, had been for the past five years. Addicted to methadone she was hardly the type of woman to serve on the WI. She would never be asked to bake a cake or make a batch of chutney for the summer fete.

  He'd dealt with her in the past, back when she had a boyfriend who'd doubled as her pimp. Thankfully, the tosser was long gone, overdosed on some dodgy heroin, he'd been dragged from the bottom of the canal, bloated and green with bits missing care of the little fishes. Trouble was, where Karen Miller was concerned the damage had already been done. The result was a broken woman who'd been reduced to selling her body f
or next to nothing, a quart of cheap whisky or twenty Benson and Hedges seemed to be the going rate.

  The night of the attack, she'd been in town trying to drum up business in her short, denim skirt and sparkly top, her ravaged face obscured by a long, cheap wig that she'd snatched from a market stall.

  Susan cleared her throat; Karen seemed to have forgotten they were in the room, her eyes locked on some grisly internal landscape.

  'Listen, Karen, we have a description of the man who might have been responsible for attacking you.' Lasser said.

  Karen jabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and immediately lit another.

  Susan coughed and wafted a hand in front of her face. 'Do you mind if I open a window?' she asked.

  Lasser sighed when he saw Karen's face harden. 'Touch that window and I'll have your fucking eyes out,' she hissed.

  Susan's eyes sprang wide with shock and she looked at Lasser in disbelief, he shook his head and raised an eyebrow.

  'It's OK, Karen; no one's going to open the window.'

  Susan swallowed and mouthed the word sorry at him.

  'We think the man had black hair, down to his shoulders and marks on his face, does that sound familiar to you?'

  'I never saw his face.'

  'You said in your statement he came at you from behind, is that right?'

  Karen nodded. 'Grabbed me round the throat,' she held her forearm under her chin and yanked back with a grunt.

  Susan winced. 'So you didn't see his face at all?' she asked.

  Karen flicked a sour look at the young officer. 'I could smell the bastard but I never saw him.'

  Lasser slid forward on the sofa. 'What do you mean you could smell him?'

  'Fucker stank,' she took another gulp of smoke and scratched at a scab on her right arm.

  'You mean as if he hadn't had a wash?'

  'He stunk of piss and draw.'

  'Cannabis?'

  'And curry, I could smell that shit.'

  'On his breath?'

  She snapped her head from side to side. 'No, it was on his clothes, all over him, you know what I mean?'

  Lasser nodded. 'We also think he may have been wearing a denim jacket and dirty white trainers.'