Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  Calladine nodded. She might have a point, but he thought it was unlikely. The tarot card left at both crime scenes told him another story.

  “If it is one killer then perhaps they’re just starting out,” Rocco suggested. “Perhaps they haven’t found their particular method yet.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Rocco,” Calladine told him. “No — I’m certain we’re looking for one person who knew them both.”

  “But the doctor and North lived in entirely different social circumstances. So who’d know them both?” Rocco asked.

  “Albert North and Doctor Ahmed can’t possibly be linked,” Imogen argued. “I doubt they have anyone or anything in common. North was from the Hobfield and the doctor from the posh part of Leesworth. North was retired and the doctor at the hospital all day, every day.”

  “The link is the killer. He or she could be a tradesman, someone delivering groceries, the list is endless once you think about it,” Calladine pointed out. “We’re going to have to dig, because the link is there. Somewhere. We’ve got to find it because there’s no guarantee that this is the last one.”

  “You’re expecting more?” Imogen asked.

  “We’ve no way of knowing, but it looks to me like someone’s on a mission.”

  Brad Long entered the incident room. He nodded to the team and handed Calladine a piece of paper. “Julian sent this up. He reckons you need to look at the summary of his findings right away.”

  “How’s Thorpe doing with the case of the missing child?”

  “He’s following a lead but it’s a wild goose chase if you ask me. The child could be anywhere — it’s been days.”

  “Shouldn’t we be doing more?”

  “With what? With who?” Long puffed out his fat cheeks. “We’re stretched to the limit as it is. Anyway I’ve given Oldston the heads up, and asked them to look at ours in tandem with their Cassidy case. That new guy they’ve got, DI Greco, is looking at it now.”

  “The Prideau girl disappeared on our patch. It should be down to us to find her.”

  “We can’t afford to be that idealistic, Tom. I wish we could, but we just don’t have the resources.”

  Calladine sighed discontentedly and looked at what Julian had sent him. He scanned the single sheet of A4 stamped ‘urgent’ in red ink.

  “This backs up my theory that we’re looking for one killer,” he told the team.

  “So it has to be someone who knew both Albert North and Doctor Ahmed,” Rocco reiterated.

  “Tariq Ahmed was a doctor. They see all sorts at the hospital,” Imogen reasoned. “So our killer could be from the Hobfield and also have had some beef with the doctor.”

  “But why now? What is it that’s prompted these killings?” It was a puzzler and Calladine’s brain was out of practice. He’d just have to work on it.

  “According to Julian’s preliminary report,” he told the team, “hairs were found on both Doctor Ahmed and Albert North’s clothing — synthetic hairs, like those you get in a cheap wig. So if there were any doubts before, I think this dispels them. We’re definitely looking for a solo killer.”

  “What colour?” Ruth asked.

  “Grey and curly.”

  “Like an elderly woman’s hair, sir — the sort of style that still requires rollers and a hairdryer at the salon.”

  “If you say so, Sergeant.”

  But she was right. When he thought back to when his mother was in the care home he could recall all the old dears having more or less the same style, and that just about summed it up — grey and curly.

  “Then this could be someone in disguise, pretending to be elderly.”

  “Pretending to be an elderly woman,” Ruth corrected him. “But why? What would that achieve?”

  “Trust perhaps,” he replied. “Who would be frightened of an old woman?”

  Doc Hoyle had said the killer was small. Was their killer, in fact, a woman?

  “Rocco, did you get that CCTV from the neighbour’s house?”

  “Yes, sir — I’ve got it set up ready to go. It’s from a house three doors down from the doctor’s. They have two cameras and one faces the drive and catches the footpath. It’ll only be a snippet, if that, but given what we know about the hair now, it’s worth a shot.”

  Calladine was hoping that even a stray shot of their killer would solve the gender question. “Will you get that sorted, Rocco? Get stills of everyone who passed that driveway after nine o’clock Monday night.”

  “Imogen — dig around a bit, will you? Dig around in Doctor Ahmed’s past and see what you can find. We’ll leave his patients until later — look at personal stuff first.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy; they were a man down and Thorpe was useless.

  “Ruth, we’d better go see the fortune teller now.” He rolled his eyes.

  “You shouldn’t scoff,” she warned.

  “I’m not scoffing, just dubious,” he corrected her. “First the shop, and then we need to do something about the doctor’s patients. We’re going to have to go through them all.”

  “The hospital won’t like it, sir. We’ll need special permission, the lot.”

  “We’ll get a warrant. Whatever it takes but we’ll leave it until it becomes vital,” he decided.

  Chapter 5

  As Harriet Finch opened her eyes the full horror of what she’d done struck her like a thunderclap. The old Harriet was back — the one who knew full well that her recent actions had been horribly wrong. The Harriet with the conscience was on her case, urging her to stop before things got out of hand.

  Too late for that — she’d killed two men in as many days. What in hell’s name had possessed her?

  Stupid question. She knew very well. A woman she barely recognised was responsible, a version of Harriet Finch who would eventually take over her mind completely. This new version was hell bent on revenge. She was a woman on a mission, but what was worse, she was pressed for time.

  She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She was evil, a murderer. Could she be stopped? No, not now; it was far too late.

  The panic went to her stomach like a blow from a heavy fist. She coughed violently, made a dash to the bathroom and vomited down the toilet.

  Calm down, you’re safe — the new Harriet reassured. But was she? Harriet was living in a sort of bubble, but one that could burst at any time. When it did, she’d be carted off to prison. The ignominy; the shame. What was left of her family would never cope with it.

  She crawled back to her bed and sat on the edge, exhausted, her body shaking. You have to finish this, the cold hard voice told her. You promised and you owe it to those you love.

  “Loved,” Harriet corrected out loud. “They’re nearly all gone, and that’s the whole point.” She sighed wearily. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Revenge, chaos and more misery.”

  She heard laughter in her head. The voice was taunting her. This wasn’t who she was. Harriet Finch wasn’t a killer — not the old Harriet Finch anyway. It was the cancer that had changed her. The cancer had taken on a personality, and one which had nothing but raw intent. It demanded and pushed, and Harriet could refuse it nothing. She was powerless against its energy, its will.

  The voice was insidious; it warned her that she had to act now. She must be quick and avenge those she’d loved. She was haunted by the faces of people long dead. They cried out to her in her dreams and in her head when she was awake, as they joined the voice. They too wanted vengeance, and like it or not, they’d made her their vehicle.

  She had to take control if she was to see this through to the end. And it must start now, today. Harriet, the new Harriet, had to get on with it. She might be at death’s door herself, but there were still things to do. And the voice kept telling her that time was running out. Any day now she might become bedridden and her task would remain unfinished. If she was going to complete this, then she had to get on with things.

  Gordon Lessing — he’s the next one, the voic
e whispered. You know how evil he is, you know the truth about him. He finished your poor sister, Sybil. But it wasn’t just Sybil, was it? The children, Harriet. You know, you’ve suspected all along, and still you’re silent. Your silence is deafening! You know what he’s done and you know that he won’t stop. So why in all these years have you never spoken out? That’s bad Harriet, very bad. Think of the misery he’s given all those families, think of the children . . . But you can put that right now, can’t you?

  Yes, she could, and Sybil would want that. Suddenly she understood. She knew what to do, but she’d have to plan carefully. It had to be a befitting end for the cruel bastard. It had to be something satisfying to watch, after what he’d done to those children and to Sybil.

  Sybil. Her poor dead sister. She sobbed and dabbed her eyes. She never used to cry like this but these days she couldn’t help it. Everything seemed so sad, so pointless. Sybil had never been able to stand up for herself, so she never had a chance against that pig of a man. Lessing was a bully, a controlling wicked bully. To everyone who knew them as a couple he gave the impression of being a good, caring provider. But it was a sham.

  He pretended to be the successful businessman, always boasting about his haulage company and how it gave his family a very good living. But he only had two lorries and a van, and the lorries were run into the ground and spent most of the time parked up. So whatever he did, he’d have to do using the van. It had black paintwork and dark tinted windows. Harriet shuddered. He used it for watching the children. He’d park near a school; pretend he was waiting for one of his own, and watch. What he did then was something she didn’t want to think about. He must be passing the information on to someone. She’d seen the headlines in the paper recently. She knew that two local girls were missing. He didn’t fool her, not for a second. He didn’t earn his money by transporting goods across Europe. It was the children.

  He was involved with a group of eastern Europeans who were people trafficking — children trafficking to be precise. Sybil had suspected and she’d confided in Harriet. Back then the idea had seemed preposterous. Gordon was a steady, safe sort of man. How wrong she was.

  Harriet didn’t want to think about it anymore. It was too terrible. Lessing’s job was to source them. It was the devil’s work. He was part of a trade so wicked he deserved all he was going to get.

  But dealing with Lessing would mean going out into the world again and that made her nervous. If she wanted to see him, it would have to be in the daytime. There was always the chance that Jane, his daughter and her niece, would be there in the evening. Where possible, she tried to manage everything during the hours of darkness. Daylight was not flattering. She looked terrible — like death itself, in fact.

  However, one way or another Harriet would have to conceal the ravages of her illness, cover them up behind makeup and a wig. Chemotherapy had robbed her of both her looks and her hair. She’d wear the titian one. It was nearest to what her old hair colour had been.

  The voice purred, quietly at last, happy with the plan: He has a cellar, Harriet, everything you need is down there.

  Was it? Why there? She couldn’t think; was she missing something?

  Harriet looked at her reflection — the makeup helped, but not much. The wig looked garish against her sickly pallor. She screamed in frustration and threw the thing across the bedroom floor.

  That’s it, girl, the voice encouraged. She was hardly a girl — she was fifty-five and terminal. Her illness had stolen her energy and her looks. All she had left, all that was keeping her going, was the voice with its burning, all-consuming need for revenge.

  If she didn’t get caught this time then it was back to the treatment. But would she make it? Harriet couldn’t understand why she was still at liberty. She was no expert, and she’d killed two people with no repercussions — not even a visit from the police. Well, not yet anyway. But it had made her nervous. Every phone call and every knock on the door made her sick with worry.

  * * *

  “Long didn’t hang around, did he?” said Ruth.

  “You don’t really want that man nosing into everything we do, do you, Sergeant?” Calladine replied.

  “That’s not the point. He knows we’re short on the team. He could have offered to help. I’ve no idea what he finds to do in that office of his all day.”

  “He’ll have some time-wasting occupation to fill the hours, Ruth — believe me. Who was he on about? Who is DI Greco?”

  “Well, apparently he’s quite something,” she told him conspiratorially. “He’s some hotshot detective new to the area and stirring things up at Oldston nick from all accounts. He sounds okay.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “I’ve not had that pleasure yet but I’m told he’s young. Young, fit and from the south of England somewhere.”

  “Calm down, Sergeant, you’re spoken for, remember?” he said, pulling a face. “How come Oldston get him and yet it’s us that are short-handed? It makes no sense to me.”

  “It doesn’t have to, sir. You know what they’re like, the bigwigs, law unto themselves.”

  “Imogen should contact him — tell him her theories. Her research, what she’s put together, it all sounds very plausible to me. She’s put the work in — she should be allowed to help.”

  “I could speak to him and suggest it,” Ruth said, turning into the High Street. “But she might find him hard going.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “He might be good, but there have been rumblings. One or two have said that DI Greco is just a little too picky for their liking. In fact one of the sergeants at Oldston told me that he thinks the new DI has some sort of condition. You know — like OCD. Apparently he’s ultra-neat — always tidying things up, that sort of thing.”

  “So he’s a nutter?”

  “No,” she protested, “he’s neat, overly finicky if that’s possible, and he likes to go over and over stuff before he makes up his mind. He’s also a bit of a loner. He does have a good clear-up rate though.”

  “In that case I’m glad we haven’t got him. You were right: he does sound like hard work.”

  “Don’t get too happy. We could still get him — there is the DCI position at our nick going begging, remember?”

  “There’ll be a free parking space by the library; the shop is just around the corner,” Calladine advised, ignoring her comment. “Is she scary?”

  “Don’t be daft, sir. She runs a shop, not a coven, and she’s nice. I’m sure she’ll help if she can.”

  * * *

  The shop was called Starshine. It was small, packed with all sorts of weird stuff Calladine didn’t recognise, but it smelled divine. The detective inhaled deeply.

  “The smell is jasmine — from the incense.” The owner’s laugh was a gentle melodic sound that made his nerve ends tingle.

  “Relaxing, isn’t it? You should try some at home, Inspector.” And her bright blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

  Calladine, who had just been about to proffer his badge, retracted his hand from his pocket, puzzled. “How do you know I’m police?”

  “Because I live locally and I’ve seen you about,” she told him. “It’s not magic, it’s just local knowledge.” There was more twinkling of those incredible eyes.

  So she’d noticed him. Calladine wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not. Did he really need another woman noticing him? But then again she was a very attractive woman. She looked to be in her mid-forties, tall with a full voluptuous figure, long sable-coloured hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Calladine stood, unable to do anything but stare at her for a good few seconds.

  There was something mesmerising about her — not just the looks, it was the whole package. Her mode of dress was what he’d describe as ‘bohemian,’ or was it simply aging hippy? He shook himself — what on earth was going on? He’d only just clapped eyes on the woman and he was transfixed. There was Lydia at home and, although he’d never put it to the test,
he had her down as being rather jealous.

  “Amaris Dean.” She gave him that dazzling smile again.

  “Amaris?” He repeated the name almost in a whisper, still puzzled. He’d never the name before.

  “Moon child — it’s my Wicca name.”

  More stuff he didn’t understand. He’d have to let it go; he certainly didn’t have the time to get dragged in. Something told him this woman was dangerous. And not because she might possess some weird occult power, but because she might play havoc with his libido!

  “Can you help us with these?” He cleared his throat and tried to get his mind back on track as he pulled the cards from his coat pocket.

  “Ah! From the pack you bought here.” She smiled at Ruth.

  “You have two very powerful cards there, Inspector.”

  “We need your help and your knowledge or we wouldn’t be disclosing this,” he explained. “Our case could be destroyed if the press got wind of it. So I need your reassurance that this will go no further.”

  “You have it, Inspector. Whatever you tell me will not leave this shop.”

  There was something about the way she said it that made Calladine believe her at once. He instinctively felt that this was a woman he could trust.

  “Both these cards were found at murder scenes — this at the first,” he said holding out the Tower, “and this at the second. I need some help to understand what they mean.”

  She came closer. Calladine was aware of her scent; it was heady like the incense. Part of him was praying she wouldn’t come too close — he was already sweating.

  “The problem is that people tend to take the images literally.”

  Her voice had depth. Sexy. Calladine immediately began to wonder what that voice would sound like whispering sweet nothings to him in the bedroom. Damn it; he hadn’t reacted like this since he first met Lydia.

  “The Tower is bad news — it’s that sudden catastrophic event that changes a life forever. It’s the moment that shapes futures for good or ill. The Devil too, is not a good card. If it falls in a reading then I take it to mean that the querent is under the influence of wickedness in some form. But as we know, Inspector, wickedness can take many shapes, so the other cards in the spread would help with this.”