Forced to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  Langham introduced him to Oliver as Hank, and Oliver would have shaken his hand in any other circumstance, but the bloodied latex gloves ensured he kept his arms by his sides.

  “I’ve sent the sugar strands and hairs—fortunately for us some have the root still attached—to forensics. Others, well, they’re not real. I’d say they’re synthetic,” Hank said.

  Langham nodded, stepped closer to the table. “Yes, the bloke wore a wig. We know who he is anyway, but the confirmation will only strengthen our case.”

  “Ah, always the last to know these things, me.” Hank smiled and continued his perusal of Louise’s insides. “Nasty business, this. And there’s more bodies here, waiting in their silent way for me to find out what they have to say despite being dead.” He nodded over at three more tables, bodies covered with white sheets. “My assistant needs to get his arse into gear and put them in the fridge. What’s he doing? Was only supposed to have gone for a piddle.”

  Oliver had wondered why they weren’t refrigerated while Hank worked on Louise.

  “All related murders, I’m told.” Hank walked to a shiny whiteboard on the wall beside the door. “A Mark Reynolds, Geraldine Reynolds, and Ronan Dougherty here as well as Louise. So, this is a serial, yes?” He moved back over to Louise, peeling back what was left of the skin on her face.

  Fuck me…

  Langham said, “You’ll have more bodies in shortly. Male and female. Although they’re related in the case to these poor bastards, they weren’t killed by the same person. If you’ll believe it, a young girl killed them.”

  Hank shot his head up, stared at Langham with his mouth wide open. “What, a young girl killed these people here?”

  “No, sorry, I wasn’t being clear. A man killed these four, but the girl killed the other two you’ve got coming in. There’s also a foetus. When you see the female victim, you’ll wonder how a four-foot kid had the strength to do what she did, but she had the help of drugs.”

  “Oh my. Well…” Hank picked up an electric blade. “That sounds most disturbing. The youth of today, eh? Any road, is there anything I can help you with, because I need to…you know…off with her head!” He slashed at the air with his blade, his red cheeks shining with sweat.

  Oliver’s knees buckled.

  Hank laughed. “Not literally, dear boy. Just cutting the top off. Need to have a wee look at her brain.”

  Bile surged up Oliver’s throat and settled on the back of his tongue. Good job he hadn’t eaten lately.

  “We just needed to have a nose inside Louise here, unless you can tell us what we need to know. Not that we even know what we’re looking for,” Langham said. “Inside her torso. Did you find anything there other than the strands and the hairs?”

  “A bit of fibre, nothing to tell the neighbours about,” Hank said. “Apart from the fact she was hacked more after death than when she was alive, and she received an almighty whack to the back of the head with a rounded object—think metal piping, something like that—there’s nothing to report here. The others?” He shrugged. “Won’t know until I open them up, and that’s just a saying. They’re pretty much opened up already, except for the old lady. Kind killer, thinking of me like that, saving me a job.” He smiled, laughed again, then gave his blade quick a burst of electricity. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “If you find anything—”

  “I’ll let you know. Chop-chop!” He brought the blade humming to life again and pointed to a transparent visor. “Wouldn’t mind putting that on for me, would you? My hands are a bit messy.”

  As Langham stepped around the table to give his services, Oliver bolted from the room. How could Hank be so jolly? If Oliver had that job, he’d be as morose as hell. He leant against the wall in the corridor, the sinister sound of the blade rasping on his nerves.

  Langham came out. “You okay?”

  “I will be when we get out of here.” Oliver breathed in deeply, tasting death.

  “Yep, we’re going now. I don’t know what’s up with me today, but I forgot to run a check on who owns Privo. I’ll call it in to Shields, let him deal with it. I want to visit Cordelia Shields before it gets too late. Then we’re calling it a day. Everything will still be here tomorrow when we wake up, still one massive fucking mess.”

  It was with huge relief that Oliver stepped outside into the fresh air, although faint traces of odours still lived inside his nose. That sterile room had brought it home that Louise was dead. What had he thought before then? That she was a parody of a dead body lying in the grass?

  * * * *

  Seeing the house by the river from this distance wasn’t something Oliver had thought he’d ever do, and staring at it from afar and wondering who lived inside was as close as he’d thought he would ever get. Now, standing on the semicircular, brick front step beneath the veranda, his stomach churning, he imagined what Cordelia Shields would look like.

  The door swung open, the reverberating sound of the bell dying.

  Cordelia Shields’ face was that of someone so much younger than fifty-four. Surgery had been kind to her, smoothing out the wrinkles she’d undoubtedly have had, had she not gone under the knife. Blonde hair, salon perfect, covered her head in copious waves, some coiling on her shoulders only to continue their tumble down her chest. The ends reached below her breasts—large, augmented breasts. She sported the body of a twenty-something, well-toned and lithe. Her jogging bottoms clung to slim legs.

  “Sorry to trouble you.” Langham drew out his ID. “DI Langham. Would you mind talking to us about your car?”

  “My car?” She frowned and brought one hand up to rest on her throat, the hand the only part of her that gave away her age. It was craggy with wrinkles. “Which one, darling?”

  Her laugh got on Oliver’s nerves.

  “Your black Mercedes with the licence plate 5-H-1-3-L-D-5.”

  “What about it?” She smirked and arched one eyebrow, cocked her hip, leant it against the doorjamb.

  Langham cleared his throat. “Who else drives it but you?”

  “I don’t drive it.” She waved a hand in a dismissive manner. Pristine, long, red-polished fingernails caught a strand of her hair. “Although someone drives me around in it.”

  Ah, it was like that, was it? Definitely one of those people. Rich, up her own arse.

  “When was the last time it was used?” Langham asked, his voice compact.

  Oliver wondered if they were going to talk about this on the doorstep all night or whether this rude woman would actually invite them in. He was dying to sit down, even if only for five minutes. His head and broken finger ached.

  “This morning. Robert took me into the city.” She smiled tightly.

  “Robert?”

  “My driver.”

  “And the time before that?”

  “Hmmm, let me think. Perhaps it was yesterday. Did I go out yesterday? I’m not sure. I’ll have to consult my diary. Wait here one moment.”

  She closed the door.

  “Shit. She could be doing anything in there. Warning this Robert.” Langham ran a palm over his stubbled chin.

  “You have a suspicious mind,” Oliver said.

  “I have every reason to. Especially as her car is involved in an abduction.”

  “Point taken.”

  They stood on that step, statues of impatience, waiting an interminably long time for Mrs Shields to return.

  “What the fuck is she doing in there?” Langham muttered, the tic working beneath his eye again.

  “This house is so big, she might have to walk a fair way to wherever she keeps her diary.”

  “Ridiculous having a house this large,” Langham said. “Probably only her and a husband, a few hired help. What’s the point? Why not downsize?”

  Oliver disagreed. “Why not have it if she can? Why does she need to live in a smaller house if she can afford to live here?”

  Langham looked at him as though he’d grown horns. “Are you being serious
? This place should be filled with people, not one or two rattling around.”

  “It might have been, once. She might have had several kids, they’ve left the nest, and now there’s just her and possibly her old man left. It’s still her home. She shouldn’t have to leave it, leave all the memories behind because other people think the place is too big for her.”

  “Other people. You mean me. Just say it.”

  “Yep, you. Entitled to your opinion and all that, but I don’t see it the same way.”

  “Didn’t ask you to.”

  “Nope, you didn’t.” Oliver stopped it there. He wasn’t in the mood for their sniping, and the tone Langham had used meant it would be more than banter if they continued this way. “So what happens if she comes back saying she never went out yesterday or any of the days that car was spotted at Glenn’s?”

  Langham didn’t respond. The front door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Mrs Shields stood there again, diary in hand.

  “Well, I didn’t go out yesterday,” she said. “I thought I had, but after looking in here, I see I have my days mixed up.”

  Old age crept up on you in the mind, even if your body looked younger.

  “Does Robert use the car for his own purposes?” Langham cocked his head.

  “No, he most certainly does not!” Indignation came off her like sleet—pointed and sharp, stinging and cold. “He lives in. I would know if he used it without my permission. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “May we come in, Mrs Shields?”

  Oliver watched for her reaction. He felt she was hiding something, although he couldn’t get a handle on exactly what it was.

  “Is that necessary?” She pursed her mouth. Her top lip gained a row of vertical lines much like comb teeth. The Botox needed to be done again.

  “It would be more comfortable…” Langham smiled.

  “I would much rather we spoke out here.” She glanced back into the house, a large foyer with gleaming white tiles and a mahogany staircase at the centre, shooting straight up to a veranda like the one outside the house. Gaze back on them, eyes wider, though she hid any anxiety well, she said, “Just tell me what the problem is and I’ll deal with it. Broken back light? Did I forget to purchase new road tax? Flat tyre? What?”

  Oliver wanted to laugh. She was good at this acting innocent business.

  “None of those.” Langham sighed, his irritation with her game obvious.

  “Then what, for God’s sake?” She clamped her lips closed, sucking them in so their rose hue disappeared.

  Langham coughed. “How about child abduction?”

  Her mouth sagged. Colour, pink as a tongue, formed rounded spots on her cheekbones. A gasp came out of her, torn, an after-thought—that gasp should have come first, shouldn’t it? “Child abduction? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “Surely not!” She moved back a few inches. “There is no way my baby would be involved in such a thing.”

  “Your baby? Would that be Robert?”

  She rolled her eyes, the irises disappearing for a moment, her whites blood-veined, bulging. “No! My baby! My car!”

  “Right, Mrs Shields, I’ll be frank with you. I’m tired. Very tired. I’m investigating several murders. A child is missing, taken by a man driving your baby. Now, either you let me in, or I call for backup.” Langham glanced about. “Your neighbours…they’re close enough to see your driveway. See a few patrol cars travelling up it. Is that what you want?” He shrugged. “With my car, us two standing here, we could be salesmen. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He said that last statement like he’d spoken to a dense child.

  She blinked several times. “I really don’t think—”

  “I don’t care what you think. I am coming into your house to ask questions whether you want me to or not. Whether it’s now or later, I don’t care. Unless you prefer to accompany me down to the station. Would that suit you better? Of course, we would drive you, not Robert. Your car, it will have to be collected. Forensics will need to check it.”

  “I am telling you, Detective, my baby wouldn’t transport an abducted child.”

  She spoke as though her car was a living being. Was she cracked in the fucking head? Oliver was losing patience with her. He had the urge to shove her into the house, march her to a sofa, and get some bloody answers.

  “Your baby would have had no choice, because Robert, or a man at any rate, would have been driving it!” Langham snapped. “Where is Robert now?”

  “I… I… He was here, but—”

  “Convenient.” Langham clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth so the muscles in his cheeks danced. “Listen, I’m not into pussyfooting around you now. I’m going to call for another officer. He will bring uniforms with him, who will have your car towed. You will speak to me and my colleague here, about the times Robert has driven your car with your knowledge. If you are so sure it hasn’t been used without you in it, then you must have been present when he visited the home—several times, I might add—of the abducted girl before finally taking her . Now, that girl was taken but has been able to get away from her abductor because she has returned home and killed her parents today.” Langham bunched his fists. “We do not know where she is now, but I intend to find out. Your car was used to take her, so it isn’t a far-fetched assumption that the young girl has been kept here. I have probable cause to enter this house without a warrant. Do. You. Understand. Mrs. Shields?”

  “Yes. Yes! I’m not stupid!” She glanced back again.

  What was she doing? Checking the coast was clear before she let them in? Stalling them? Oliver side-eyed Langham, who got out his phone and walked back down the drive—the only way anyone could get off the property, unless they chose to dive into the river at the rear. He barked orders, striding across the gravel, his shoes crunching—Rice Krispies in milk, amplified—his face rigid. He finished his call, features now composed, flat and expressionless.

  “Mrs Shields. You’re married, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her hand fluttered at her throat again. “But only in name. He… We’re separated. Have been for quite some time.” She blustered on. “I… I was building up my career. He didn’t like it. He… I earned more than him. We—”

  “Your husband is a police officer. A detective?”

  Oliver’s guts twisted. Jesus Christ…

  “Yes.” She looked back again, cheeks redder now.

  “A detective currently unavailable, one on duty, who, for reasons unknown, hasn’t reported in and isn’t answering his phone.”

  Oh, fuck me…

  “What has that got to do with me where he goes?” She bit her bottom lip, the flesh around her two front teeth bleaching white.

  “And you are the owner of PrivoLabs, yes?”

  “Yes. And what of that?”

  “Mrs Shields, I would like to take you into the city for questioning.”

  “I’m under arrest?” She let her jaw drop, a pathetic attempt to look dismayed, and shook her head.

  “Not yet, no. But I have a feeling you will be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Officers had arrived within minutes, oozing over the house and grounds like ants on a mission. Mrs Shields had been taken into the city, bristling and prickly as she’d been led to a police car. Oliver thought Langham’s touch of having her escorted in a marked car amusing—if she was involved in this crap, she deserved to be seen, to have people know she was a criminal. A small part of him wondered whether she could be involved.

  And what about Shields himself? He was married to her? Christ, he hadn’t said word about that. He should have, what with PrivoLabs being in the picture. He shouldn’t even be a part of the case. How had he expected to keep that quiet? It would have come to light sooner or later. And did that mean he was in on the abduction, in on PrivoLabs’ wrongdoings? Had he remained silent about everything so he was in on the ground floor, able to know where the investiga
tion was going so he could warn Cordelia? Was their separation a ruse?

  Oliver followed Langham through the massive house, mind swimming with too many questions. “This fucking stinks.”

  “Yep,” Langham said. “Like a bacteria-riddled turd.”

  They were upstairs, wending in and out of the many bedrooms, finding no Glenn Close and nothing to imply she’d been there.

  “You getting anything?” Langham asked. “Any pushes from dead people?”

  Oliver hadn’t been taking any notice. Tiredness was probably a factor, his senses dulled, mind unable to cope with anything more than his own thoughts charging through his head. “No, but I can try.”

  He stood in the middle of what he assumed was a guest room, double bed in the centre, wooden wardrobe and matching beside cabinets the only other furniture. Pine, if he wasn’t mistaken, varnished a deep amber that bordered on orange. It looked cheap, considering the amount of money Cordelia had. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind of everything that filled it. The relief of that alone eased the ache in his shoulders, tension squirting out of his muscles, toothpaste from a tube.

  It came, a voice, whisper-soft, and one he hadn’t expected to hear.

  “I’m outside.”

  “Shields?”

  Langham spun around. “What the fuck? Jesus Christ. This isn’t something we need at the moment, a copper being killed.”

  “Shh! I don’t want to lose him,” Oliver said.

  “Well! He winds me up.”

  “He won’t anymore, will he!”

  “This is hard. Can’t…”

  “Hold on, Shields,” Oliver said. “Relax. Concentrate only on speaking to me. Imagine you’re just resting with your eyes closed, and speak, let the words come.” He’d have to work hard to keep Shields with him if he wanted answers.

  “Right. I’m sorry. For… I’m just sorry.”

  “Sod being sorry. That stuff doesn’t matter anymore. Just tell me what you know.”

  “Cordelia, she isn’t involved. Hasn’t got a clue what’s been going on. You hearing me okay? Is this working?”