by James Arklie
Pete shook his head as Kline grasped for anything. ‘The only unusual item is the Alice Doll. If that is the message you think, then we know the reason it’s there.’
Kline pressed. ‘Interviews with family and friends?’
It got another shrug. ‘Not married. No partner. Lived alone. Parents dead. Friends are more like colleagues, she was doing locum work, meaning not close. Hard-working and they can’t believe it’s happened.’
Kline wondered if his death CV would read any differently. Like all of the other ALICE cases, the police were confronted with a brick wall.
He tried again.‘No signs of a struggle?’
‘Nothing. Killer chose her randomly and killed her.’
Kline was frustrated. This was all about ALICE. There was nothing random in this at all. Everything this man did was for a reason and a purpose. There would be something associated with Audrey Waters that had made her the victim of choice. He just had to find it.
With Pete’s agreement, Kline went to Audrey Water’s apartment. He took Angie and left Artie to work on a deep dive into her background. Kline told him to go to town on the 1990’s.
Audrey’s apartment was on the second floor of a 1960’s, red brick building, out towards Highfield and Southampton Common.
Once inside they edged their way round the rooms, lifting, replacing, turning and shaking. Audrey was a very orderly person. There were a few pictures on the walls, photographs of far off places. She had clearly travelled. A few unusual ornaments on the sideboard. Kline guessed mementos from her travels. Nothing was out of place. The kitchen was so clean it looked as though it had never been used. Pete said that SOCO had been all over the apartment and found nothing.
They spent extra time in the bedroom, but after an hour Angie’s patience ran out. Her hands were getting hot, sweaty and itchy inside the protective gloves. She peeled them off into a ball and ran her palms down the front of her jeans. ‘What are we looking for, boss?’
Kline was in the kitchen, frowning at cupboards and trying to move a large fridge-freezer. He wondered if SOCO had it out, looked behind. No, he thought, that’s not the kind of place you leave a clever message.
He leant his backside against the edge of worktop. ‘Audrey Waters is now firmly a part of the ALICE story. You agree?’
Angie nodded. ‘The MO, the doll. Big message. ‘I’m back.’’
Kline said, ‘See any other dolls?’
‘Couple of cuddly teddy bears in the bedroom. That’s it.’
Kline pushed himself up and ambled into the lounge where he stopped in the middle of the room. There had to be something else. Cassie had said it, this was a very intelligent man with a massive ego. He was so pleased with himself that he must have left something more.
‘It’s here, Angie. In plain view.’
Kline rolled up a rug, looking underneath. Nothing. Had SOCO lifted the carpets? Again, that’s where a person hides something, not where they leave a clever memo.
Kline stood and let his eyes roam. They stopped on some low bookshelves that extended behind a large recliner. He took two steps, bent and pulled the recliner forward. Behind it, at the end of the bottom shelf was a small collection of vinyl. LP’s still in their sleeves. Kline thought back to one of the reports, the one from New Zealand. The cop said there was an LP playing when he arrived. He’d turned it off.
Kline knelt with Angie and started flicking through the albums. She said the name of the band before they found the sleeve. ‘Alice Cooper.’
Kline’s fingers stopped abruptly. There it was, copy of the Alice Cooper album – ‘School’s Out’. Not only famous for the song but also because the original vinyl was slipped into a paper sleeve the shape of a pair of women’s panties. Kline smiled at the old-fashioned simplicity of the things that got you going as a young teenager.
Kline took the album to the kitchen table. First, he removed the album from a protective plastic cover and then the vinyl from the paper sleeve. He asked himself what he was expecting to find. The paper panty sleeve replaced with a real pair from one of the killer’s victims? Or perhaps for a dried, pressed flower to drop out?
There was nothing. Angie vented her annoyance. ‘Shit.’
Kline was silent, thinking. The killer is a clever man. Thinks he is superior. He will leave a message. He will have expected a smart detective to have thought of this, so this was a tease. Bravo, detective, for thinking smart, but you’re still not as smart as me. Alice doll to Alice Cooper was too simplistic.
Kline muttered. ‘There’s something else.’
This will have been a step to the real message. He’d led them this far and most would accept they’d been clever but failed. That’s what he expected. His intellect wins.
Kline thought back through his youth. His older brother’s collection. His Dad’s Albums. Unusual covers. Panties to tittivate the young teenager. Their killer didn’t do panties, but he did do….
And then Kline had it, said it aloud. ‘Bowie. ‘PinUps’.’
Angie’s stare questioned Kline while he rifled through the stack, until there it was. He pulled the album clear and stood up, feeling the extra thickness inside the sleeve. Bowie and Twiggy gazed at him from the cover. Young, beautiful and dreamy, made up and air-brushed to within an inch of death. He’d loved that album almost as much as Ziggy Stardust.
Angie was perplexed. ‘Boss, I’m not understanding.’
‘You don’t have to. We need to bag this, Angie. Forensics can open it.’
Kline swallowed against the horror, because if the killer had done what Kline thought, they were up against a terribly sick mind.
*
The picture of the mysterious, unknown woman in the five photographs went out on the early regional news at five forty-five. PR listed the request as a woman who went missing in the nineties that they were keen to trace. Kline had instructed that if they had no responses that evening or overnight, they would go nationwide in the morning. There was a central number for the public to call.
At six p.m. Kline took a deep breath and stretched back in his chair, extending his arms above his head, hearing his shoulders crack. He needed to do more exercise. Next to him Artie was submerged in his deep dive of Audrey Waters. His work ethic was second to none. Kline kept an eye on his face for signs of any further brushes with his colleagues.
Kline had sent Angie to one of her group counselling courses. She was planning to miss it, but she needed them. Kline could see the bad signs reappearing like unwanted spots. And he knew the pain sat deep and permanent inside her. After a bottle of Sauvignon, she would admit it was like having broken glass in her gut.
Kline doubted it would ever heal because she would never allow it to heal. Anyway, she looked after him in his moments, so it was only right, he look out for her. Yet, as they approached the tenth anniversary of her daughter’s abduction, her bad traits, the actions that told the world the anguish had never gone, were resurfacing.
Angie spent work hours and all hours of the night trawling social media; she renewed and relaunched a Facebook page dedicated to Carly; she did the same with a website; there was £10,000 reward for information which led to finding Carly; she spent weekends chasing down non-sensical leads from people trying to grab the reward; and so it went on.
Inside her, the self-blame and self-loathing roiled, boiled and bubbled like fat in a vat. On the outside were the physical scars, the white lines on arms, legs, the scar above her right eye where she’d taken a look at herself in the mirror and then headbutted herself in anger and with hatred. Hating herself and what she saw.
Kline had tried to explain to her a thousand times that she did nothing wrong. When a vulture takes a mouse it’s not the fault of the mouse. All she did, was park the buggy one side of her car, walk round the other and duck into the passenger well for some wipes. In those ten seconds, the predator was in, had lifted Carly, buggy and all, into a van, and was gone.
It was the speed of a hawk taking a sparrow
or an eagle a rabbit. Angie had walked back round the car to nothing and her life stepped into a black void.
Kline said as much to Charlie as they went to visit Jenny. ‘She’s suffered loss, Charlie. And look at her. Still a mess. It’s coming to us soon, so how are we going to cope?’
Kline rubbed at the back of his head and pressed a palm to an ache in his back. His body was reminding him it was dialysis day again tomorrow.
Kline glanced down at his passenger. ‘I was thinking, Charlie. If I let myself die, let myself go at the same time as Jenny, can you manage on your own? Because I can’t kill her, Charlie. I’m a coward. I really can’t let her go.’
Kline swung the car into the gravel car park. ‘I think it’s the only answer, my friend. I die first, the kidney will do it, and then I won’t have to face the pain and agony of her dying before me.’
Kline tugged on the handbrake and looked down at the calm expression and knowledgeable smile. ‘I know there’s an alternative and I can live. But I don’t want that. It’s not right.’ Kline ruffled the fur on top of Charlie’s head. ‘What do you think?’
*
Chapter Seven
In the morning there were no pamphlets in the mailboxes and the main door was locked. Instead, Kline spotted his resident Jehovah’s Witness lurking at the coffee shop. He greeted Kline with the smile reserved for an old friend arriving to meet him for coffee. Kline had the impression he was waiting for him.
‘Morning Mr. Kline.’
That stopped Kline in his tracks, then he realised. He’d taken the pamphlets from his mailbox in front of Luke.
Kline ordered an Americano and a full fat latte for Angie. He gestured with his hand, offering to buy one for Luke. He declined. ‘Booth at the back.’ He smiled. ‘Just as you suggested.’
Kline scanned the pale face. He was older than Kline had first thought. Possibly mid-twenties. He was waiting for Kline to say something and Kline was cornered waiting for his coffees, so asked, ‘How’s Dan Brown coming along.’
Kline wasn’t sure it was normal reading material for a Jehovah’s Witness, but because he didn’t know, he wasn’t about to judge.
Luke nodded, enthusiastic. ‘Good. Exciting. Interesting. Especially if half of it’s true.’
Kline’s coffees arrived. He took the cardboard tray and turned to go.
Luke reached out and touched his arm. ‘If you ever want to talk…’
Kline stopped and turned back, aggression entering his body language. Luke quickly went on. ‘That copy of The Watchtower. It discusses pain and grief. You look like a man who’s suffered loss. Sometimes it’s good to talk if…’
‘Luke. I’m fine.’ Kline tried to remain polite. His pain had nothing to do with this man.
‘Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs it down, but a good word cheers it up’ – Proverbs 12.25.’ His smile tried to wrap Kline in its warm enthusiasm.
Kline turned and stormed away. He didn’t need the help of God or anyone else. Fuck it. He had Charlie and more importantly, he still had Jenny.
Kline was having another early dialysis day. With this case building some energy it was best to get it of the way as soon as he could. Today, he’d arranged to collect Angie from outside her apartment at eight. It would give them an hour together in the office to plan the way forward while he was out of action.
Instead, because the spring sunshine was full on her balcony, she buzzed him up. Kline sat in a soft chair, closed his eyes and turned his face to the warmth of the sun. ‘That’s life renewing.’
Angie didn’t answer. Kline shaded his eyes and looked at her. ‘You been up all night?’
‘Not all night.’
Kline went straight at it. ‘Tenth anniversary causing you shit?’
‘Every day and every anniversary creates pain. Ten is no different. It’s a huge stone wheel that rumbles on and grinds me down. It should get easier shouldn’t it? Time the great healer and all that.’
‘Only if you’ve had the chance of closure, Angie. You haven’t got that.’
‘In that case, I will be in pain all my life.’
Kline watched a tear release itself and stretch its way down one cheek. He wanted to go and hold her, but he knew she wouldn’t let him. What had that Jehovah’s Witness just said to him about anxiety?
Angie took herself to a sunbed, sat and then swung her legs up. ‘Okay if I take an hour this morning. I have a couple of leads.’
Kline frowned at her and gave a small shake of his head to show he thought it was pointless. Yet he knew he had to give her leeway. Letting her clear it from her mind would help maintain her focus on ALICE. ‘Make sure it looks as though they are leads on our case.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’
For a few minutes they sat in silence, gazing out across the harbour and down to the port and the cruise ships. There were two and even from this distance the activity round them was intense as they were readied for an afternoon departure.
Artie broke the spell by calling Kline who put him on speaker. ‘The appeal has got us some responses. Three from the TV and three from Facebook. Same name comes up twice. Bryony James.’
Kline checked his watch. Eight-twenty. He wanted to get to them before they disappeared to work. ‘Call the Bryony responders now, Artie. Confirm their address and contact details from their earlier call. If they are in a rush get a couple of sentences of background on Bryony. How they knew her, where she worked.’
Beside him, Angie whispered ‘pictures’? He nodded.
‘Ask them to send us a picture of Bryony from when they knew her. Also ask when they last saw her and when they will be available for interview.’
‘What about the other calls.’
‘Leave them until later.’
Kline looked at Angie and she nodded her agreement. Two from six is a good hit rate and they needed to strike fast. Somewhere in the harbour a boat blasted it’s horn three times to signal it was reversing. The deep note echoed through the spring morning.
Kline said, ‘Angie will follow up the others when she gets in. What about the ALICE women?’
‘I’m managing to build profiles of the time they spent in the UK. It would be quicker if it was more recent. Modern social media really makes a difference.’
Good old-fashioned police work, thought Kline. ‘Focus on where they lived. Addresses and family. Contact details. This is shoe leather and visits.’
Artie added, ‘It still seems strange though. Five women from the UK are murdered abroad and no one picks up on it.’
‘Different era, Artie. Communication was very different then and it was over a period of five years. But hold on to that thought, it might be important.’
How times and technology had changed, thought Kline. When he’d joined the force there weren’t even mobile phones. Now, every officer was issued with one. Kline could take a picture of a suspect in the street getting into a car, email it back to Central Comms and have them confirm back to him in minutes the ID of the car owner and any police record.
Yet, Artie was right. Five women from the UK. What was the link between them? There had to be something.
Angie was now sitting on the edge of the sunbed, she asked Artie, ‘Audrey Waters, the latest victim, how old would she have been in the 1990s?’
Artie clicked a few keys. ‘Given thirty is the key age of all the others, then in 1996 she will have been thirty.’
Bang in the middle and bang on the right age. Angie took it on. ‘I’ll get her background from Pete Simpson’s team and dig round.’
Kline checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He wanted to check in on Jenny because during the night the spy camera had sent a single alert to his mobile. There had been nothing to see, but still…
Kline wound it up. ‘Meeting at two-thirty after my soul has been purified. Focus is on the responders and the links between all these women. Look hard, because there will be one.’
He stood, reluctantly dragging himself out of the warmth and relaxation of
the sun. Why had he made that statement so boldly?
Because they had a name that linked all the women and that name was ALICE.
And they had an LP cover.
*
Kline dropped in to see Jenny. The nurses had finished the morning wash and they had also trimmed her hair. They’d applied some make up and lip stick. With her pepper grey hair framing her face she looked beautiful.
The smile was on her lips. ‘Morning, love. So, which fancy man did you entertain in your room last night?’ Kline checked the camera. It was still in place.
‘Got a secret lover, have we?’
Kline turned back to the door as someone rustled passed and saw the small vase overflowing with lilies. It was on a small cabinet, just inside the door. He stared at their ghostly whiteness. Had someone slipped a hand inside her door last night and deposited them? Is that what triggered the sensor on the camera?
One of the ancillaries rattled up to the door with the morning tea trolley, poured him a cup, added a biscuit to the saucer and brought it in. She handed it to him, followed his gaze and went across and fussed with the arrangement.
‘Beautiful aren’t they. White Peace Lilies.’
Kline sipped his tea. ‘You’re a garden lover?’
Kline thought of the garden he’d left behind when he sold the house to pay for Jenny’s long-term care. What was the contradictory phrase Angie had used in one of her angrier moments - ‘To keep a dead person alive’?
The ancillary shook her head. ‘No. But we see a lot of lilies in here.’ She gave him a smile.
‘They are wrongly called the ‘Death Flower’, but that’s rubbish. It’s because they are usually given after someone has died. You know, laid on coffins or on graves.’
No, Kline didn’t know and something inside was screaming at him.
The ancillary carried on. ‘Father Andrew told me they are considered to promote peace, harmony, purity and rebirth after death. I laid them at my mother’s funeral.’ She leant in and sniffed as Kline’s horror grew round their beauty.