Blood On the Wall

by Jim Eldridge

  Next to Taggart was the final member of his team, DC Richard Little, thirty years old, small, quiet, thoughtful, neat and tidy almost to the point of obsession. As Georgiou watched him now, Little was flicking a tiny speck of dust from the leg of his trousers. Georgiou had visited Little at home, and discovered that Little’s wife, Vera, was exactly the same. Their house was immaculate inside and out: the front lawn kept firmly cut, the flower borders neat, the house inside orderly with everything in its allotted place. It was not a house where Georgiou had felt comfortable; he’d felt that he was messing the place up just by being there. But Little was a key part of his team with his obsession over making sure every tiny fact was taken note of, every detail was recorded. Fastidious and close attention to detail, that was Little. The very words Dr Kirtle had used to describe the killer.

  We’re looking for someone like Little, thought Georgiou.

  At the boards, Tennyson pointed to one of the photographs on the board, that of a middle-aged woman. It had obviously been taken from police files.

  ‘Let’s start with the first one,’ he said. ‘Victim number one. Michelle Mary Nixon. Age forty. Married twice. Last divorced in 1998. Lived alone in a flat in Haltwhistle just over the border in Northumberland. Two convictions for soliciting. Also on record are charges for drunk and disorderly, and wilful obstruction. Although these charges were later dropped because witnesses didn’t want to give evidence. Apparently Michelle Mary was a real tearaway.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three. Two boys and a girl, aged fifteen, twelve and ten. All in care.’

  ‘A completely different kettle of fish to what we know of Tamara Armstrong,’ commented Seward. ‘Young, from a wealthy family.’

  ‘Maybe Tamara was a hooker on the side?’ suggested Taggart.

  ‘If so, she wasn’t very successful at it,’ put in Georgiou. ‘Dr Kirtle says she was still a virgin.’

  ‘Now there’s a rarity in this day and age,’ said Conway.

  Tennyson pointed to a photo of a small industrial building.

  ‘Michelle Nixon’s body was found inside this shed close to the railway line, just outside Haltwhistle.’

  ‘That suggests we’re talking local knowledge,’ mused Seward. ‘Unless whoever did it took a chance.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Georgiou. ‘Means of death?’

  ‘Strangled,’ said Tennyson. ‘Possibly with a length of wire, according to the report. Her head was cut off after she was dead. The body, still clothed, was hanging from a girder, tied with electrical wire around the ankles. All the blood had been drained from the body and had stained the ground beneath her, just like with our one. The head was missing.’

  ‘And no sign of anything sexual?’ asked Georgiou.

  ‘No, which is unusual in Michelle Mary’s case if it was someone who was a client. Which brings us,’ said Tennyson, moving back to the most recent photographs, ‘to yesterday morning and the discovery of Cumbria’s victim, Tamara Armstrong. Student. Daughter of Edward Armstrong, chairman of the Police Authority.’

  Tennyson pointed at a series of photographs of Tamara Armstrong’s body hanging upside-down from a tree. She was fully clothed. Scene-of-crime tape could be seen in the photos. Some were long shots, some close-up.

  ‘Same MO as the one at Haltwhistle,’ announced Tennyson. ‘Body hung upside-down, this time from a tree. Ankles tied to a branch with electrical wire. Body fully clothed. The area beneath the body was soaked with blood. The body was found by a man walking his dog.’

  ‘Any semen stains?’ asked Seward.

  Tennyson shook his head.

  ‘No. Just like the other one. If he’s doing it to get his rocks off, he’s doing that somewhere else.’

  ‘Unless it’s a woman who’s doing it?’ put in Taggart.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ snorted Tennyson derisively. ‘Each of them was hung upside-down, from a point six feet off the ground in Tamara’s case, nearly seven feet off the ground in Mary Nixon’s. That means physical strength. I know what Dr Kirtle says, but I don’t fancy a woman for it, not without an accomplice.’

  ‘No?’ said Taggart archly. She gave a sly smile. ‘Have you seen the muscles on some of these women athletes? The shot putters and javelin throwers?’

  ‘Think we ought to round up a few women athletes, chief?’ cracked Conway.

  Georgiou shot him a frown.

  ‘Sorry,’ Conway said ruefully.

  ‘Right, at first sight, what’s the connection?’ Georgiou asked the team.

  ‘The victims are both women,’ said Seward.

  ‘The method? The equipment?’

  ‘An electrician who hates prostitutes and students,’ muttered Conway.

  ‘And who collects heads,’ muttered Seward.

  ‘There’s got to be a link somewhere,’ mused Georgiou. ‘We know this is the same killer, unless someone did a copycat with the second one.’

  ‘Too many details the same,’ said Little. ‘The small details that weren’t in the press reports.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Georgiou. ‘So, it’s the same killer. Debby and Kirsty, I want you to build up a file on Tamara Armstrong: activities, friends, enemies, where she used to go, what she used to do, clubs, interests, everything.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ Seward nodded.

  ‘Richard and Iain, I want you to go through the case file on Michelle Nixon. Then I want you all to cross-check both files, see if there is anything, however remote, that connects the two women. People they knew in common. Places they went to. Maybe hairdressers. Hospital appointments. Regular train journeys. Anything, no matter how small. Let’s meet back here at three o’clock this afternoon and check through what we’ve got. OK?’

  ‘Right, chief,’ said Conway, and he and Little, and Seward and Taggart gathered up their notebooks and headed for the door.

  Georgiou turned to Tennyson and said: ‘Mac, get on to uniform and start them knocking on every door in the roads that lead to the park in Stanwix. I want to know everything everyone saw between midnight and when the body was discovered yesterday morning, no matter how small and apparently insignificant.’

  ‘All in hand, boss,’ said Tennyson. ‘I put that in motion yesterday.’

  ‘Good,’ said Georgiou. ‘In that case, you’re with me.’

  ‘Right. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to the scene of the latest murder. See if there’s anything to give us an idea of what this is all about.’

  SEVEN

  Debby Seward and Kirsty Taggart had compiled a list of the people that Tamara Armstrong had been out with on the night she was murdered. There were three: Donna Evans, Suzie Starr and Rena Matlock, all girls of about the same age, all former schoolfriends of the victim. They were talking to Rena Matlock now, in the living room of her parents’ home in Cavendish Terrace, less than two miles from where Tamara’s body had been found.

  The house was large, double-fronted, early 1930s, in one of the most exclusive roads in Carlisle, and both Seward and Taggart were aware they were dealing with money. It was in the way that Rena stood by the window while Seward and Taggart sat, as if Rena owned the world and everything in it. Surly, thought Seward. Superior. To her, we’re her servants. It’s the way she’s been brought up.

  Their questions had been gentle, probing without appearing to. Georgiou had taught them that: ‘Our job isn’t to talk, our job is to listen. Let them talk. If they’re guilty, they’ll say something that will trip them up. If they’re innocent but they’ve got information that can help us, they’ll reveal it. But only if they talk.’

  Rena Matlock was talking now.

  ‘We were in Razza’s bar. It’s a new one opened in town, at the top end of the town, not far from the Lanes. Do you know it?’

  Seward and Taggart nodded.

  ‘We were supposed to be having a girls’ night out, just the four of us, but Donna picked up a guy and went off with him at half past ten. She is such a slut! That left me, Suzie and
Tamara. We stayed there till just after midnight when Razza’s closes. We decided to walk home because our houses are so near, and I don’t trust some of the taxi drivers who work late. Some of them are such low-lifes.’

  ‘Have you or any of the other girls had trouble with taxi drivers before, late at night?’ asked Taggart.

  ‘Well … yes and no,’ said Rena. ‘They don’t actually say anything, it’s just the way they look at you. They leer. You know they’re trying to hit on you.’

  Perhaps if you wore more clothes when you went out at night they mightn’t leer so much, thought Seward. She’d seen the way so many of these young girls walked about at night, even in the coldest weather, with skirts that hardly covered their behinds and off-the-shoulder tops that barely hung below their nipples.

  ‘So you walked home,’ prompted Taggart.

  ‘Right.’ Rena nodded. ‘We walked over the bridge, then Suzie went off first because she lives just along Brampton Road. Me and Tamara walked up to Cavendish Terrace and I turned off and walked home. Tamara headed up Scotland Street. She lives … lived … at Knowefield.’

  Suddenly Rena moved away from the window, her fists clenched.

  ‘It could have been me!’ she stormed angrily. ‘Do you know that! It could have been me!’

  Seward and Taggart exchanged looks. Beneath their bland, concerned looks, both knew what the other was thinking: Rena was a spoilt brat who was more worried about what had almost happened to her rather than what had happened to someone she claimed to be her best friend.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the loo,’ snapped Rena, and abruptly left the room.

  Seward and Taggart said nothing, just waited. They’d been caught before by people who claimed to be going to the loo, and then hung around outside the door eavesdropping for a second or two, trying to pick up information to help them with their alibi. That’s if Rena was a suspect, of course, not just a witness. But then, Seward and Taggart had learnt that everyone was a potential suspect. And the closer they were to the victim, the more of a suspect they became. Lots of relationships had their dark side, something that could trigger sudden violence.

  As the two women waited for Rena to come back, Seward looked at her partner and wondered what Taggart really thought of her. She was friendly enough in a casual way, but there was a gulf between them. Not that it was entirely Taggart’s fault; Seward knew she didn’t let people get to her. She also knew that some of the male officers called her a lesbian behind her back, and wondered if it coloured Taggart’s attitude towards her. Did Taggart expect Seward to make a move on her while they were out in the car together? If so, she’d be relieved to know that women weren’t her thing. Or maybe she’d be disappointed. Who knows which way people swung. OK, Taggart was married, but in her experience that didn’t mean much.

  The truth was that Seward had a secret: Andreas Georgiou. She’d fallen hook, line and sinker for him soon after she joined his team, a year before. His wife had been alive then. Then his wife had died, and Seward had let Georgiou know that if he wanted to talk, she was there for him. But she hadn’t overdone it, just kept it casual, businesslike. Possibly she’d been too businesslike, too casual. He’d just nodded, said ‘Thanks’, and that was it. He didn’t know how she felt, how she’d always feel. She’d thought about coming out and telling him, maybe when they’d all had a bit too much to drink, blame it on the alcohol, but it hadn’t happened.

  They heard footsteps outside, and then Rena swept into the room. She still looked angry.

  ‘Going back to what you said: you think this was just random?’ asked Taggart. ‘You don’t think Tamara was the deliberate target?’

  ‘Why should she be?’ demanded Rena. ‘She doesn’t mix with the sort of lunatics who’d do this mad thing!’ Then she stopped as if a thought had struck her.

  ‘Yes?’ Taggart prompted her.

  Rena shook her head.

  ‘Even that lot wouldn’t do something like this.’

  ‘Which lot?’ asked Seward.

  ‘Those creepy geeks she hangs around with from the uni.’

  ‘The Brampton Road campus?’ asked Seward.

  Rena nodded. ‘They make films. Tamara hung around them now and then. I think she wanted to get into films. Be an actress.’

  Seward and Taggart exchanged glances. This was an interesting aspect.

  ‘Do you know who in particular she was involved with at the uni?’ asked Seward.

  Rena shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I never got involved with them. They’re a bunch of fakes. Posers. I warned her against getting involved with them.’ Then she frowned. ‘Wait, she sometimes talked about someone called Drake.’

  ‘Was Drake his first name or his last name?’ asked Seward.

  Rena shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘All I know is that Tamara thought he was a genius.’ She scowled. ‘All these arty types think they’re geniuses. I can’t stand them.’

  ‘And did she see these people … and this Drake … a lot?’

  Rena shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to know about them.’

  ‘How did she get involved with them?’ asked Taggart.

  ‘She just saw them doing some filming in the centre of Carlisle one day and got talking to them. They were making some kind of documentary by the cross in front of the tourist office.’ Rena gave a sour little laugh. ‘If Tamara saw anyone with a movie camera she’d start talking to them. She was a complete geek like that. Starstruck. I told her, most of these people are sleazy and undesirable and to be avoided.’

  ‘How closely did she get involved?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rena shrugged. ‘She didn’t talk about them to me because she knew what I thought about them.’

  ‘Except for this person called Drake,’ probed Seward gently.

  Rena nodded.

  ‘And she only mentioned him to me once. She shut up when I told her what I thought about these so-called artist geniuses. They all die in poverty. What’s the point of that?’

  The crime scene was a mess. Tyre tracks and footprints on the grass around the tree where Tamara Armstrong had been found hanging. The grass beneath the tree was still stained, the red of Tamara’s blood now turning brown. The ground felt spongy beneath Georgiou’s feet.

  Bunches of flowers had been laid at the base of the tree, bearing cards with messages like ‘You were an angel’.

  ‘Check the cards on the flowers,’ said Georgiou. ‘See if we can trace who left them. Maybe chummy left one, just to be funny.’

  Tennyson nodded.

  ‘There’s not much here, guv,’ he said. ‘Tyre tracks from the vehicles that came to take the body away, footprints from uniform.’

  ‘Did you see it before it was messed up?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Tennyson. ‘Uniform were on to it first, then I gather there were a load of ghouls turned up to look. Uniform kept them away and put up screens, but that meant them walking all over the place.’

  Georgiou looked at the tree where Tamara Armstrong had hung upside-down while her killer cut her head off, and at the patch of dried blood beneath. This was the big difference with the murder of Michelle Nixon. Michelle had been murdered and her head cut off indoors, in a railway shed, out of sight of prying eyes. Tamara Armstrong had been killed and her head cut off here in the open, even though it had been in the darkness of the early hours of the morning. Anyone could have come by. What had caused the change in the MO? Maybe the killer needed more of a thrill? The chance of being caught? Like people who got an extra kick out of having sex in public places, doing it without being caught. Maybe it was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down to the police. See, I kill right out in the open and you can’t catch me.

  Oh yes I will, Georgiou promised himself grimly.

  EIGHT

  Seward took a swig from the small plastic bottle of water and then put it back in the glove compartment of the car. God, it wa
s hot! The water had been cold when she bought it an hour ago, now it was already lukewarm. She wondered if she ought to invest in one of those iced water bottles she’d seen advertised in the papers, a padded bottle holder with an ice cube in the bottom. No, she decided, she’d only forget to put it in the freezer every night.

  Beside her, in the parked car, Taggart was listening on her mobile, nodding and saying ‘Got it’ every now and then. Finally she said, ‘I owe you one, Nick.’ Then she hung up.

  Seward looked at her inquisitively.

  ‘A pal of mine,’ said Kirsty. ‘He teaches creative writing at the uni. A good guy.’

  ‘Does he know Drake?’

  ‘Not well,’ said Kirsty. ‘A different department. Enough to know his first name though. Eric Drake. Nick says he’s a bit of a poser.’

  ‘An opinion shared by Rena Matlock,’ commented Seward.

  ‘No, Rena said that everyone at the uni’s a poser,’ Taggart corrected her. ‘Not true. Take Nick, for example. Like I say, a good guy. Genuine.’

  When she saw Seward looking at her with a curious expression, Taggart laughed out loud.

  ‘Nothing like that! I’m a married woman!’

  Seward shrugged. ‘I didn’t say anything,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway, if we can’t get hold of Drake, Nick suggests we talk to someone called Paul Morrison. He’s an occasional lecturer in film at the place. Nick says he’s the guy who has most to do with Drake. Today is one of the days when Morrison is in, lecturing.’ Kirsty grinned. ‘Nick also says Morrison is a pretentious wanker.’

  DC Conway looked at the pile of papers in front of him and shook his head. Social Services reports. Charge sheets. Medical reports. He groaned.