A Cut for a Cut (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  Sudden, thudding footsteps above them accompanied by loud giggling stopped them from talking. Tilly cocked her head. ‘I’d better go and see what that pair are up to. He really did choose the toy starfish himself. He thought the smile on its face would make you feel happier on days when you were sad, chasing criminals.’

  Kate lifted it up and beamed at the smiling face. Tilly paused by the door.

  ‘And, we both think you’re a star. A unique, wonderful star.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The engine vibrates between his thighs and gives a final satisfying low growl as he turns it off. He shouldn’t have long to wait. Daisy works three evenings a week at the popular White Horse pub and is invariably dropped off at the same place by a co-worker. She walks through the park before emerging close to the estate where she lives.

  He props the bike up on its stand. The driveway he’s using is empty. The house has been unoccupied for over a month and stands on a corner plot so it’s unlikely anybody will take much notice of the dark bike parked outside the garage. To be sure it isn’t picked up on any cameras, he’s removed the number plates as usual. He’ll screw them back on when he gets home.

  He tugs off his gloves, finger by finger, so he can undo his helmet and places it in the box. The last thing he wants is somebody stealing it. There are only a few houses along this one-way street, overlooking Festival Gardens, one of the smaller parks in Lichfield, with footpaths that allow pedestrians to pass from one side of the Western Bypass to the other without having to cross the busy main road.

  He slides the balaclava over his face, puts his gloves back on and makes his way into the park. Daisy always gets out of the car at the clock tower roundabout and takes one of the footpath links towards the silvery brook and turns left towards the underpass, emerging from the short tunnel into neatly tended gardens, where she climbs the path up a steep slope and crosses the road towards Friary Gardens where she lives. Although not tonight. She’ll get no further than the underpass. The tunnel doesn’t contain graffiti or smell badly and isn’t occupied by youths or druggies. Lichfield is a proud city and the park is one of many acres maintained by the local council.

  He likes the anonymity of the city, which is really only a large town with a cathedral. There are so many visitors, he can easily mingle and draw no attention to himself and yet it isn’t too far from where he lives.

  Although the paths are well lit, the shrubbery affords plenty of hiding places, so he finds a suitable dark patch where he can see the ancient clock tower and where he has a view of the path Daisy will follow, and waits in the cool dampness.

  A green car draws up to the pavement. The door opens and Daisy steps out. She’s wearing a belted coat and boots. Underneath she’ll be in the uniform she wears behind the bar, a white T-shirt and black skirt.

  ‘Night, Michelle.’

  He can’t make out the muffled reply but he clearly hears the door slam and watches Daisy pick her way down towards him. She pops earbuds in and begins searching for a suitable track to listen to, her head lowered over the mobile device. She doesn’t see him step out until he is in front of her and before she fully lifts her head, his hand sweeps towards her neck.

  Kate rested her palms on the padded leather armrests of Chris’s office chair. Gentle light fell from the desk lamp and spotlighted the few personal objects he’d kept there: a photograph of the two of them taken at picturesque Robin Hood’s Bay in North Yorkshire, a bronze, rotating, kinetic gyroscope and a Mont Blanc fountain pen, a reward to himself for getting his first job as a journalist – his lucky talisman.

  The house was silent apart from the odd familiar creak as it seemed to stretch and yawn around her. She’d never felt alone or frightened here, or had to switch on a television set, or play music for company. She preferred the comfortable silence that settled around her, the familiarity of her home. It was a content house and when she closed her eyes at night it would whisper happy echoes of the past. Of all the rooms that brought back vivid memories of Chris, the study was the one place where she felt his presence most strongly. She’d occasionally spray his favourite aftershave into the room, allowing the tiny droplets to infuse the chair and cushion where he’d always sat.

  She’d enjoyed the evening with Tilly but sitting here, she felt a sense of loss. Normally, she would converse with Chris as if he were present, yet try as she might to conjure him up, she could not. Her head was too full of Tilly’s laughter as she and Kate had chased after Daniel and his friend Toby, all pretending to be dinosaurs. It was as if so much life had eradicated the ghost of Chris, a notion that chilled her.

  She switched off the light, found her way out of the room and into the hallway, lit only by moonlight coming in from the small pane of glass in the front door.

  ‘Did you fill up the bird feeder?’ Chris called.

  On hearing his voice, a wave of relief washed over her. ‘Yes, of course I did. Where have you been? I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘You didn’t want it enough, Kate.’

  The room plunged once again into silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The strip light vibrated noisily. Kate, who’d been working alone in the office since seven o’clock, no longer registered the sound. Her takeaway coffee had gone cold and a half-eaten pot of yogurt lay neglected on her desk. She’d been going over past rape cases and been working for well over an hour by the time Emma came in.

  ‘Morning. You been here all night?’

  ‘Feels like it. Is it half eight already?’

  ‘On the dot.’

  ‘I’m guessing Tilly didn’t join you this morning. She had her hands full with Daniel and his new friend when I last saw her.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong there. She’s taking her training seriously. She dropped off both boys with the neighbour and came in for a quick half-hour session.’

  ‘Hey!’ Morgan’s greeting was subdued and his eyes baggy. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘At least there don’t seem to be any new victims,’ said Emma.

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way too,’ Morgan replied. ‘Three are three too many.’

  Computers were switched on and heads lowered. Minutes passed in silence before Kate asked, ‘Any idea where Jamie is?’

  ‘He was outside, talking to the super when I came in. Either brown-nosing or begging for more overtime.’

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ said Emma.

  Morgan grunted. ‘He gets on my wick.’

  ‘Because he’s keen and enthusiastic?’ said Emma.

  ‘No, because he borrowed twenty quid off me and still hasn’t paid me back.’

  Kate zoned out. She wanted news on Olivia. The sooner they could hear what she had to say, the better. She dialled the hospital and waited to be put through to Olivia’s ward. Jamie appeared while she was on the phone. She noticed Morgan pointedly ignored his greeting.

  The information from the hospital wasn’t what she hoped for. Nevertheless, she relayed it to the others. ‘Olivia had a poor night and her recovery has taken a setback. The doctors are hopeful she’ll improve, so we’ll have to continue to be patient. She might still provide us with vital evidence.’

  Morgan groaned. ‘Now what? We’re getting nowhere.’

  ‘No, we are making progress, admittedly, slower than any of us would like, but I have complete confidence in this team. For one thing, we’re sure the killer has been using a black Honda motorbike without registration plates. I’ve asked for this information to be released to the press and for them to circulate it. A member of the public might well have spotted the bike and we might get lucky. We shall get to the bottom of this.’ She searched for any questioning looks, saw flickers of hope in her officers’ eyes and returned to her desk, pep talk over.

  Her screen came to life again and she picked up where she’d left off, looking at a past rape case. The unsolved assault had taken place the year before, in Rocester, only a ten-minute drive north of Uttoxeter. W
hen Kate had been part of a running group, they’d often trained around the landscaped grounds of the JCB factory that took pride of place opposite the village.

  She clicked onto the victim’s photograph and took in the limpid, coffee-coloured eyes that seemed to gaze trustfully at her, and the elfin face framed by dark hair, with espresso hues and golden-brown tone, cut in a long bob. This young woman bore a strong resemblance to the other victims and Kate’s pulse quickened as she scrolled through the information. Bianca Moore was a twenty-one-year-old shop assistant, who lived with her parents in the village. One Saturday evening, last October, she’d been jumped on her way home and dragged to scrubland behind a car showroom building which stood close to the shop. Her heart rate intensified as she read the girl’s statement. She wasn’t rendered unconscious by her assailant. He’d attacked from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth and forced her, using threats, to the place where he raped her. He’d worn a balaclava and had been abusive throughout the rape, swearing and defiling her verbally as well as physically. The itching was back. Kate scratched at her scalp, her eyes glued to the screen. The man had wrapped his hands around her throat, threatened to kill her but instead released her with a hard laugh and the words ‘You’re mine’.

  Kate reread the last line and wiped moisture from her palms on her skirt. There was now little doubt in her mind that they were searching for this assailant. His modus operandi had evolved; he’d introduced the vagus strike to render his victims helpless, and now, after raping them, strangled them.

  ‘Our priority must be to interview Bianca Moore,’ she said, after she’d summed up her finding. Faces were once more alight and Emma had already picked up her car keys in anticipation of joining Kate. ‘I know Emma’s been looking into it, but we need to up the ante and be making earnest enquiries at local martial arts schools and centres to see if anyone started classes or training more intensely during the last year, or if anyone expressed interest in performing or practising vagus strikes. He’d have required tuition to learn to aim his blow accurately, wouldn’t he, Emma?’

  ‘For sure. It’s not something you can pick up from YouTube, not if you want to perform the manoeuvre perfectly.’

  ‘Pursue that angle while Emma and I interview Bianca.’

  There was a soft rapping and a low cough. A man in blue overalls, holding a toolbox, in the open doorway spoke up. ‘Maintenance. I’ve been sent to fix the strip light.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ said Morgan. ‘It’s doing my head in.’

  Kate got to her feet. She hadn’t registered the incessant hum for a while. She might even find the place too quiet once it was silenced. At least the repair would help pacify her team.

  Bianca no longer worked at the local shop in the centre of Rocester and had moved out of the village to Ashbourne, a market town in the foothills of Derbyshire. Kate let her mind digest the facts, while Emma was at the wheel. Dua Lipa sang as they whistled past the impressive JCB World Headquarters where mirrored frontage reflected the silver shimmering of one of the three lakes and fountains shooting spray into the sky.

  ‘That thing always freaks me out,’ said Emma, referring to the metallic, spider-like structure made up of mechanical diggers and resembling an earth-invading creature from a 1950s science fiction film.

  ‘The Fosser?’ said Kate, absent-mindedly.

  ‘Is that what it’s called? What’s a fosser?’

  ‘It’s Latin for digger,’ said Kate.

  ‘You speak Latin?’

  A flicker of a memory: her father enthusiastically pointing out an article in the paper along with the promise of a day trip to explore the park area and lakes and view the sculpture created by a famous Polish artist. The trip had never happened. By then his illness had already taken hold of him and the promise simply slipped his memory. ‘No, my dad told me. He was into local history.’ That’s enough. She clamped her lips shut. She rarely spoke about her father. A blue and silver helicopter hovered over the helipad and took off in the same direction as they were travelling, the chop, chop, chop of the blades reverberating through Kate’s body as it flew over the car then climbed up and away. The lakes disappeared and the scenery changed, a never-ending patchwork of green and beige fields, dark hedgerows and aged trees with sweeping branches that passed her in a blur of colours.

  Soon they were turning towards Ashbourne at the foothills of the Peak District National Park, a town of slopes and cobbled streets and architecturally pleasing buildings, given over, in the main, to tourism. The town centre was built around a one-way street lined with tea rooms and quaint shops. The pavement outside the florist shop, situated at the foot of a cobbled street, was awash with colourful dahlias, asters, delphiniums and chrysanthemums. Walkers in sturdy boots and sensible jackets marched behind each other along the narrow street. The traffic had slowed, snarled up behind a lorry trundling up the steep, narrow road towards the Peaks.

  ‘One of my friends took their first driving test here,’ said Emma.

  ‘Here?’ It had some of the steepest inclines Kate had come across.

  ‘Yes. Big mistake. He failed on the hill start. I can understand why,’ she said, shoving the vehicle into first gear and waiting for the lorry to pick up enough speed so the rest of the traffic could move forward.

  ‘It’s not much further. We can park and walk to her place.’

  Within minutes they were stationed on the large, triangular market square.

  Emma jammed the key into her back pocket and said, ‘You know, back in medieval times, they used to sell pigs here, horses at the bottom of the square and sheep further down in King Street, which was called Mutton Lane.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Kate replied.

  ‘Neither did I until we found out Bianca lived here and I googled the place,’ said Emma with a quick grin.

  Kate’s calf muscles strained, threatening to rip as they paced up the steep slope to where Bianca now lived. Vehicle after vehicle belched out fumes in a never-ending procession beside them, and it was with some relief when they turned off the main drag and into a side street, even steeper than the one they’d already ascended, in the direction of a black-and-white cottage, where she rang the doorbell.

  Bianca looked older than the photograph on file. The lustre had gone from her hair, which was now styled in a pixie cut that suited her face but made it look more angular. Emma made the introductions and they soon found themselves in a kitchen diner. They refused the offer of a drink and instead got down to business.

  ‘We’d like to talk about what happened to you last October.’

  Bianca stood stock-still, kettle in hand. ‘Okay. But why are you asking me after all this time? Are you reopening the case?’

  Emma nodded. ‘After a fashion. We’re investigating a similar case and noticed there were similarities between what happened to you and another victim.’

  ‘And you think it might be the same man?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we’re looking into.’

  ‘Is she okay? This other girl?’

  ‘She’s stable but unconscious at the moment. That’s why we really need your help,’ said Emma.

  A cat flap opened with a clatter and a small panther-like animal bounded in, made for Bianca and brushed its tail up her legs. Bianca replaced the kettle and knelt by the cupboard under the sink. ‘What do you want to know? Everything I told the police should be in a report.’ She stood up again, a tin in her hand and hunted through a drawer until she found an opener.

  ‘We’ve read your statement about what happened, but we’d appreciate it if you could go through what happened that evening, so we can see if there are any other comparisons.’

  Kate had once again taken up the role of observer, watching the hand tremors as Bianca opened the can, and her eyes, as they darted around the room when she recalled the events of that evening. The young woman remembered it with clarity.

  ‘I finished work at the usual time, six thirty, and headed home. My parents’ house was
only a five-minute walk away from the shop and I knew the area really well. I’d lived there all my life. Rocester was a sleepy village. I never imagined that could happen, not there, not right near my house. I’d almost crossed the car showroom forecourt that was next door to the shop, when I was yanked backwards and a hand covered my mouth and nose. I couldn’t breathe so I struggled and my attacker said, “The more you fight me, the worse it will be for you.” I knew I couldn’t get away from him. He was gripping me so tightly, I’d never have wriggled free, and I was terrified I’d suffocate so . . . I stopped moving and . . . it all happened very quickly . . . He forced me to the far side of the building, to the grassland behind it. It was pitch black, but I could see my house from there and the upstairs light was on, behind the curtains in my parents’ bedroom, and I knew they’d have no idea what was happening to me. I was . . . terrified.’

  ‘It must have been dreadful,’ said Emma gently.

  The cat was ignoring everyone and delicately picking through the food Bianca had put down for it.

  She hung on to the empty can. ‘He asked me to nod if I promised not to scream and I did. I wanted to live. He took his hand away and I gulped in some air and then . . . he shoved me so hard with both hands, I fell onto my knees. And . . . he violated me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t make any sound. I kept looking at the bedroom window and thinking soon I would be home. I don’t have to tell you exactly what he did, do I?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to. We’ve read through your statement and the report so there’s no need. There’s only one thing we want to clarify with you. He spoke to you afterwards.’

  ‘Yes. He told me to keep my head down and count to a hundred before I left.’

  ‘Did he say anything else to you, Bianca?’

  She put down the empty can at last and clamped her hands under her arms. ‘There was something else. He said, “You’re mine”.’