by Adam Croft
“We’re not here to arrest you, love. You know what you are and I know what you are, but we need you to help us with our investigations.”
“Why the hell should I help you lot?”
“Because two prostitutes have been murdered in Mildenheath and we reckon he’s about to do a third. If you don’t want to end up being the next one you’d better start talking to us.”
Gabriella paused before opening the door and motioning for Wendy and Culverhouse to enter the flat.
The line between the flat and the street was non-existent. Lager cans and food packets were strewn across the flat along with a selection of used syringes and condoms.
“Christ, you running an AIDS factory in here or something?”
They walked over to the lounge corner and Culverhouse daintily scoured the rotting sofa for somewhere safe to sit. Once he had done so, he dusted his knees and looked up to see Wendy quite content with standing.
“Gabriella, we need you to tell us if you know a… gentleman… by the name of Tom Connors.”
“Tom? Yeah, he was a client of mine.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, was. Until it got too much for him and he decided to lump me one.”
“Did you not go to the police about this?”
“What's the point? They never do nothing. Not exactly sympathetic about people like us.”
“Is it something you want us to follow up?”
“I'm not pressing charges if that's what you mean.”
“Was Tom ever... more than a client to you, Gabriella?”
“No. I was probably more than just another hooker to him, but it was purely business from my point of view.”
“And do you know either of these girls?”
Culverhouse handed Gabriella the photographs of Ella Barrington and Maria Preston.
“Na. Never seen either of them before.”
“Are you sure? It’s very important.”
“Are these them two girls what got killed? A bloody shame, but I’ve never seen them. Honest.”
“Right. Well thanks for your time.”
Culverhouse, clearly intent on not spending a second longer than he had to in Gabriella’s flat, marched off towards the door. Wendy watched him leave before offering some words of advice to Gabriella.
“Just… be careful, OK? He’s out there and he’s going to kill again. Please make sure you’re not the next one.”
As she left the flat, Wendy found Culverhouse stood near the entrance to the building, motioning towards the concrete apex.
“Disgusting, ain’t it? Not even out of nappies and they’re already fumbling around like a Jew in a Christmas shop.”
On leaving the building, Culverhouse checked the car still had four wheels and six windows before his phone rang.
“Culverhouse.”
“Guv, it’s Frank. We’ve found another body.”
“Christ almighty. Does it match the MO?”
“It seems to. Funny thing is the body’s still warm. It can’t possibly have been Connors.”
“Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.” Culverhouse snapped the phone shut and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
“What’s up?”
“That was DS Vine. They’ve found another body. It wasn't Connors. It’s still warm.”
“Shit. There goes another evening to myself.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been working flat out since yesterday morning. You need a break. Go on your date.”
CHAPTER TEN
The perfume smelled sweeter than usual as Wendy delicately sprayed the sides of her neck. But then again it had been a while since she’d worn perfume, hadn’t it? At least six months? It must have been.
She turned to look at the four dresses which hung from the door of her wardrobe. A simple choice, but impossible to make. To the left, a long, white dress decorated with a rose pattern and a black horizontal band. Too flowery. Next to it, a short black number with a sequined bust line. Too slutty. She eyed the grey linen one with the collar and chest pockets. Too frumpy. That left the tight green one with the plunging v-neck bust. Process of elimination – good police work.
Selecting appropriate jewellery wasn’t much easier, either. It occurred to Wendy that it had been far too long since she’d been on a date. Almost two years, in fact. Since she had been concentrating so hard on her career, she’d had no time for boyfriends.
All that matters is the police force and the rest of the world can go to hell.
Just as Wendy had selected the diamond-encrusted watch and matching earrings, the taxi honked its horn, perfectly on cue.
“Well, here goes nothing,” she said to herself as she descended the staircase.
Wendy arrived at Alessandro’s to find Robert Ludford already seated at a table for two. The table was topped with a single red rose and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot was nestled in a bucket of ice.
“Good evening, Wendy. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Robert,” she said gracefully as if it had been no effort at all.
“I took the liberty of ordering us some champagne. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. It’s lovely, thank you.”
Wendy felt distinctly out of place as she perused the menu at Alessandro’s. Chicken liver pate served with toasted bread and berry compote. King prawns sautéed in olive oil, garlic and chillies, served with fresh bread. King scallops and king prawns in a white wine and cream sauce infused with chilli. No microwave ready meals for one here, girl.
“What will you have, Robert?”
“I’m thinking perhaps the Il Risotto al Funghi Porcini.”
“My favourite. I’ll have the same.”
“Marvellous. So, tell me about this investigation.”
“Sorry?”
“The serial killer case. I presume you’re on it? I’ve read about it in the papers. Terrible thing to happen.”
“Yes, it is. I can’t really speak about it though, I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. Do you have any suspects?”
Wendy smiled and exhaled in resignation.
“Why are you so keen to know?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
“But it sounds so silly.”
Wendy took Ludford’s hand.
“Tell me, Robert.”
“Right, well, if you promise not to laugh.”
“Promise.”
“I like to write in my spare time. Novels, you know. I really enjoy writing crime novels about serial killers and murders. Now you know.”
A slight titter escaped Wendy’s mouth, not unnoticed by Ludford.
“Wendy, you promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Oh Robert, I’m not laughing at that. I’m laughing at how you dressed it up as some big secret.”
“You mean you don’t find it weird or sad?”
“Of course not. In fact, I find it kind of sexy.”
“Sexy?”
“Well, someone who writes crime novels must have quite a creative imagination…”
Wendy glanced at the label on the back of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so forward. I’m not usually like this, I promise.”
“Well, I like to think it was my masculine charm rather than the alcohol.”
“Of course. I’m sorry – I know I’ve only had one glass but I drink much faster when I’m nervous.”
“What is there to be nervous about?”
“Not nervous. Excited.”
Ludford smiled.
A few minutes later, the waiter floated to the table carrying two plates of Il Risotto al Funghi Porcini which he placed in front of the two diners.
I hate mushrooms! And where’s the bloody meat?!
“Everything OK, Wendy?”
“Yes! Looks delicious!”
Wendy tucked into her festering fungus and cheesy gloop, eager not to upset her companion for the evening.
�
�So, Robert. Are you married?”
“Me? No. Well, I was. Separated, I guess you might say.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Isn’t everyone? Truth is it just wasn’t working out between us. We tried to keep it together but in the end we’d drifted so far apart she ended up going off with someone else.”
Wendy sat in silence, safe in the knowledge that silence made people talk.
“I suppose I’m just like any other guy, you know? No man is an island. I guess I just want to be happy and feel loved again.”
Wendy smiled and said no more.
At the end of the evening, Wendy and Robert Ludford left the restaurant and hailed a taxi. As the taxi pulled up outside Wendy's flat at 22 Dashwood Avenue, she felt an insatiable urge, leaning over and kissing Robert passionately.
Inside her flat, Wendy nursed another glass of red wine. She realised she must stick to her promise to be completely open and tell Michael about her blossoming relationship with Robert.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The incident room was eerily quiet at five-thirty the next morning. DCI Jack Culverhouse sat slumped over a manila file and a mug of strong black coffee. He had trouble sleeping at the best of times but he knew he would not be able to rest until he had caught the killer.
Ever since he had been on his own, Jack Culverhouse had become increasingly obsessed with work. His wife had told him that had been the case for years, but Jack knew that was nothing compared to now. The truth was that working dulled the pain – the pain of having your wife of almost twenty years leave you in the dead of night with your only child. That sort of thing could finish a man.
Jack thought about Emily every day. She would be almost twelve years old by now. He had done everything in his power to track down Helen and her successive string of male partners in order to get access to his daughter but every new lead became a dead end. He didn’t give two shits about his wife; he just wanted to see Emily. Desperately.
Culverhouse took another slurp of coffee as he contemplated his next move on the case. The manila file beneath his left elbow seemed to be growing almost by the minute; growing with information on more redundant leads and phone calls from deadheads who were convinced they could solve the murders using a range of mysterious techniques. Dowsers, tarot card readers, psychics – they were all there; all willing to help. All willing to waste Jack’s fucking time.
The phone rang. Jack glanced at the clock – eight-fifteen. He pondered for a moment as to why he couldn’t sleep at home in his super-king size bed but had no trouble dozing off whilst leaning on a pile of papers and coffee mug.
“Culverhouse.”
“Jack, it’s Charles Hawes.”
Jack, eh? That’s a good start. Looks like we’re on friendly terms today, thought Culverhouse.
“Ah. Good morning, Commander Hawes.”
“Can you come and see me in my office please, Jack?”
“I’ve got a team briefing in fifteen minutes, Commander. Shall I pop up after?”
“Now, Culverhouse.”
Culverhouse, now, is it? Bang goes the friendship, then.
As DCI Culverhouse made his way up the concrete staircase to Commander Hawes’ office, he feared the worst. Pausing to knock gingerly on the door, Culverhouse entered the office.
“Sit down, Jack. What’s the latest on this serial killer case?”
“No news, sir. We had a suspect in for questioning, but it looks like we’re going to have to let him go.”
“So I hear. I also hear that we’ve had another murder take place while the suspect was with us.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“So what made you interview Tom Connors in the first place, Culverhouse?”
Jack swallowed hard as he felt the tension rising. The Commander was using his surname again.
“We had a tip-off from someone who said he knew Maria Preston and had reason to believe he may have somehow been involved in her death, sir.”
“His mum, I hear.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“You do realise it’s now been two full days without as much as the slightest breakthrough? We have three girls dead and all you can do is go round and have tea with every little old lady who thinks their son’s been a naughty boy. Just what the hell are you playing at, Jack?”
“Sir, at the time we had reason to believe Tom Connors may have been involved in Maria Preston’s death.”
“Oh, really? Well let’s just hope the IPCC agree with you.”
“IPCC, sir?”
“Yes, Jack. Tom Connors has made a formal complaint over yesterday’s little episode. Let me tell you now, Jack. If we don’t get results – and fast – you’re going to be out of this building quicker than you can say ‘meep meep’, do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Culverhouse left the office with Commander Hawes’ words ringing in his ears as he made his way back down to the incident room – late – for the team briefing.
“Here he is!” called the familiar voice of DS Steve Wing. “Overslept did we, guv?”
The incident room was momentarily awash with titters before the eyes settled on Culverhouse. His body language said everything.
“In fact, DS Wing, I’ve just been to see the Commander.”
“Bad news, guv?”
“Quite the opposite. It could be fucking fantastic news for Commander Hawes if he gets to roast my bollocks on his barbecue at the weekend. We need results and fast. I’ve just had the dressing down of my life from the Commander and if we don’t start making some serious inroads in this investigation, we’re all for it. The fact of the matter is we’re now averaging a killing a day. Every day we let this bastard stay on the streets, another girl dies. Frank – did you get an ID on the third victim?”
DS Frank Vine grabbed a file from his desk and took out his notes.
“Yes, guv. Nicole Bryant, aged seventeen. It seems as though she was a college student.”
“Same MO as the previous two?”
“Identical, sir.”
“So we’re looking at another prostitute, then?”
“There’s no evidence to say so, guv.”
“I don’t need evidence to say so, Frank. Have the next-of-kin been informed?”
“A liaison officer’s with the family as we speak, guv.”
“Right, well I’m going to go round and have a word with Mr and Mrs Bryant myself.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, guv?”
“Why would it not be?”
“Well, I mean, if you’re going to be following this bee you’ve got in your bonnet about her being a prostitute...”
“Detective Sergeant Vine, I am perfectly capable of exercising tact. Now, whether you like it or not, I’m going to visit Little Miss Secret Hooker’s parents. If it helps you sleep at night, I’ll take DS Knight with me. Knight – get your coat.”
A wolf-whistle emanated from the direction of DS Steve Wing. Fortunately, it went either unheard or ignored by Culverhouse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wendy could hear the breath rushing through Culverhouse's nostrils as they approached the Bryant household on Mayfield Avenue that afternoon. She decided an element of tact was required.
“Guv, please tell me you're not planning to bring up this whole prostitute thing with her parents.”
“I think they have a bloody good right to know, Knight.”
“But even we don't know at the moment. Just because the other girls were prostitutes doesn't mean that Nicole Bryant was one too. It's perfectly common for a serial killer to deviate from his M.O. as he gets more and more confident with his killings.”
“I've made my own mind up about what's perfectly common, thank you very much, Knight.”
Wendy sighed and shook her head as Culverhouse plunged his finger into the recesses of the Bryants' doorbell. Moments later, a sombre looking man with wispy grey hair—although one could tell from his face he wa
s no older than 60—opened the door. Immediately, Culverhouse's attitude changed.
“Mr Bryant?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Culverhouse and Detective Sergeant Knight. We're here about your daughter. We're terribly sorry for the shock you must have had.”
The man seemed somewhat subdued and numb. “Oh. Oh, right. Yes, come on in.”
As they made their way into the living room, Wendy observed that it probably hadn't been decorated since the mid-1970s. If it had, perhaps browns, purples and swathes of filigree were back in fashion again and it was her that was out of touch.
“Mrs Bryant, hello. I'm DCI Jack Culverhouse and this is DS Wendy Knight.”
“Please, call me Patricia. This is Gerry, my husband.”
Different people deal with grief in different ways, but Wendy noticed that Patricia and Gerry Bryant seemed somewhat emotionless that afternoon. It's not that they weren't sad: they weren't anything. They were numb – almost like plastic figurines or the subject of a government drug experiment.
“Mrs Bryant, I realise it must be difficult for you but we need to ask some rather direct questions about Nicole.”
Before Mrs Bryant could comprehend Culverhouse's remark, Wendy placed a controlling hand on his arm and took over the lead of questioning.
“I think what my colleague is trying to say, Mrs Bryant, is that there are some links between Nicole's death and that of some other girls in the area recently and we have to investigate a possible connection as a matter of course.”
“Links? You mean... a serial killer?”
“It's far too early to say at this stage, but we do need to investigate the links.”
“What sort of links?” Gerry Bryant interjected.
“Well, what sort of insight did you have into your daughter's social life?”
“We didn't see her all that often, if I'm honest. Patricia and I have never been to her current home as I don't drive and Patricia finds it difficult to walk long distances with her knees.” Wendy mentally adjusted her calculation of the Bryants' ages. “Nicole is... was... always too busy with work to be able to pop over much so we more or less conducted most of our relationship over the telephone.”