by Martina Cole
She giggled into her pillow, clenching her fists in excitement. She would ring him in the week.
Finally, Elaine slept.
Chapter Eleven
‘How long has she been missing?’
‘Since last night. Her mother’s going out of her mind with worry, and I can’t say I blame her, can you? They’ve tried all her friends. Her father had dropped her off at her best friend’s house . . .’
Kate listened attentively to Amanda Dawkins.
‘And she’s never stayed out before? Has she got a boyfriend?’
‘No to both questions, Kate. The girl seems to be the perfect daughter. Always rang if she was going to be late, always let them know exactly where she was. I get the impression from this friend, Samantha Jewson, that Louise was looked down on because of it. I think this Samantha fancies herself as a bit of a girl, know what I mean?’
‘Well, we’ll get the cars to keep an eye out for her, but I have an awful feeling in my gut that she is not coming home. Not alive, anyway.
‘Listen, let the papers know about it, ask if any of the readers can remember seeing her. After she was at Samantha Jewson’s house, she seems to have disappeared. Someone must have seen her. What’s happening with the door-to-door? Anything suspicious in that department?’
‘Not really, there are eighty uniforms on the job. Each has been allocated a certain number of streets, but like everything else it takes time. We had a couple of suspicious characters but their alibis are watertight. Oh, before I forget, we’ve received all the names of sex pests, perverts and fully fledged rapists. We’re trying to locate each and every one of them. Most of the uniforms and CID from all over the county are offering to work in their spare time.’
‘We could do with them as well. Right then, I think the best thing we can do now is try and calm Louise Butler’s parents. If she was at a rave, how come we haven’t had anything from the patrol cars about it?’
Amanda breathed out heavily.
‘There were no patrol cars there.’
Kate looked aghast.
‘You’re joking! On the news this morning it said that over eight hundred kids turned up!’
‘I know. There’s more than one red face in the mobile division this morning, believe me. The old man was like a raving lunatic, apparently.’
‘And can you blame him? Jesus wept! If we’re not careful we’ll have the heavy mob down here offering to hold our hands!
‘Well, I’d better get in to see Ratchette. Do me a favour would you? Find me a decent cup of coffee.’
Amanda nodded.
Kate made her way to the Superintendent’s office, her mind whirling. No mobile units at a rave? It was bloody laughable. The barn where it was held was owned by a local farmer, John Ellis, and if Kate knew anything about it, he had known exactly what was going on. He would sell his own mother for a profit. She knocked on Ratchette’s door.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Ah, Kate. Bad business this. What do you think?’
‘In all honesty, sir, I don’t think Louise Butler’s coming home. It’s just a case of looking for the body really. Once we ascertain her movements, we’ll know more. Someone somewhere must have seen her.’
‘True. Now listen carefully. I’ve had the big boys on to me today. They’re sending a Chief Inspector over to work with you. I must stress that it’s to work with you, OK? He’s a good man, you’ve probably heard of him. Caitlin.’
Kate groaned. Oh, please, not Kenneth Caitlin!
Ratchette saw her face and snapped at her: ‘Look, Kate, whether you like it or not, the man’s coming. You are a Detective Inspector, I am a Superintendent. You take your orders from me and I take mine from the Chief Constable. Just try and work with him. Whatever his reputation, he gets results.’
Kate looked at the floor. Her heart had sunk down into her shoes.
‘All right?’ Ratchette’s voice was still hard.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now before he arrives, have you any thoughts on this that you want to talk to me about?’
‘Actually, yes. In 1984 at Enderby in Leicester two young girls were raped and murdered. There was nothing to go on at all. The police took blood samples from just about every male in the vicinity. The only thing we’ve got here is the DNA of the murderer. I think, if nothing else, we should try and eliminate as many men as possible by DNA testing in the area.’
Ratchette’s wrinkled face was incredulous.
‘You’re joking. Do you know how much that would cost?’
‘A little over half a million pounds. I know it will be expensive, but for Christ’s sake we’re dealing with a maniac.’
‘You realise that some men won’t allow us to take their blood?’
‘Then they will immediately be under suspicion.’ Ratchette shook his head.
‘I don’t know, Kate. This is something I shall have to discuss with the Chief Constable. It’s already going out on this month’s Crimewatch. Hopefully someone will have their memory jogged. The man isn’t invisible, he must have been seen.’
‘Well, up till now, sir, he’s done a pretty good job of eluding us.’
‘Leave it with me. Caitlin will be here in about an hour. Make him welcome, won’t you?’
The fact that the Superintendent could not look her in the eye was not lost on Kate.
‘Of course, sir. Now if there’s nothing else?’ When he didn’t answer, she rose from her seat and walked from the room, giving the door a satisfying slam as she closed it. Bloody Caitlin! Bloody hell!
Elaine had a hangover and the shrill ringing of the telephone made her head ache even more. She heard George pick it up.
They did not get many phone calls and any other time she would have rushed out into the hall to see who it was. Today though she just wanted to curl up and die. Her mouth felt as dry as a bone and her eyes were closed against the intrusive light. She wished George would hurry up with her cup of tea.
‘Hello?’ His voice was quiet. Who could be ringing them? The only people to phone were Joseph and Lily, and now and again a friend of Elaine’s from work.
‘Hello? Mr Markham?’ The voice was rough and coarse.
‘Speaking.’ George was bewildered.
‘This is Anthony Jones from Sexplosion in Soho. You asked me to give you a ring like.’
George felt his heart begin to beat a tattoo against his ribs. He dropped his voice.
‘I said I would ring you. How did you get my number?’
He heard the man laugh.
‘You paid by Barclaycard, remember? I got your address from your driving licence - you gave it as further proof of your identity. I got your number from inquiries like. Listen, mate, I wouldn’t drop you in it. If your wife had answered I would have given her a load of old cods. Said I was selling double glazing or something. So calm down, for Gawd’s sake.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What do you think? I’ve got some new films in and they are hot.’
Despite his fear, George felt a tiny shiver of excitement.
‘These are from Thailand, and you know what those chinky birds are like, don’t ya?’ The man chuckled and the action caused him to start coughing. George held the phone away from his ear as the man’s phlegmy voice carried on: ‘This new film makes the last one I sold you look like Noddy and Big Ears in Toytown!’
‘How much?’
‘Three hundred smackers.’
The man was aware that George was a bit too quiet at the other end of the phone and hurried on, ‘But to you, two-fifty, being as how you’re a regular customer like.’
‘Well . . .’
‘They won’t last long, mate, these type never do.’
George was in a quandary. He wanted the film desperately, but he had already had to hide one Barclaycard statement. He racked his brains.
‘Look, mate, if it’s too much . . .’ The other man’s voice was placating and wistful. Suddenly George was frightened that the ma
n would think him mean.
‘I’ll take it!’
‘When can you get in?’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
‘See you then.’
The phone went dead. George replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. He reboiled the kettle for Elaine’s tea.
The phone call had frightened him. George felt exposed. He poured the water into the teapot. He would get the film. He would draw the money out of the bank this time. Elaine might notice it was gone but then again she might not. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Chinese women . . . He liked Chinese women. They knew their place all right.
‘GEORGE!’ He winced as Elaine’s voice drilled through him.
‘Who was that on the phone?’
George poured out her tea and took it in to her.
‘Just a friend from work. Peter Renshaw. He wished you all the best, dear.’
Elaine took the tea.
‘Oh. Do I know him then?’
‘I don’t think so, dear. But I often chat about you to him. Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’
‘I’d love one, but with my diet and that . . .’ She grinned at him, a girlish look on her face.
George grinned back. If she was waiting for him to say that she didn’t need to diet she had a long wait.
Elaine felt the grin slip from her face. Her head was still pounding. She sipped her tea.
Imagine old George getting a phone call from a friend. Wonders would never cease.
Patrick Kelly was in his main offices in Barking. Normally on New Year’s Day he would be at home with Mandy. Mrs Manners would cook a large early dinner and they would sit and chat about the coming year. Now all he had to look forward to was burying her. And in a funny sort of way he was looking forward to that. At least then he would know that she was not lying on ice in a bloody mortuary. He lit himself a cigarette with his gold lighter. He grasped it tightly in his hand. On the front of it was the inscription: To Dad, Love Mandy - xxxx. It was all he had of her now.
A sharp knock at the door brought him back to earth.
‘Come in.’
Two large men entered. They were brothers, Marcus and David Tully. There was only ten months between them and they looked like twins. Both had skinhead haircuts and both wore identical grey tracksuits that hugged their large beer bellies. Both wore large chunky gold jewellery. Marcus, the elder, was the first to speak.
‘So where to, guv?’
‘I want you two to make your way up North, to Huddersfield. There’s a brand new Jag and a few bits of plant up there that need to be repossessed as quickly as possible. Take shooters with you, I think you’ll need them. The bloke don’t want to give them back, that’s how come we got involved. There’s good bunce for you both as soon as the stuff’s delivered back here. OK?’
The two men nodded.
‘You’ll need to take a couple of drivers with you. Take young Sonny and Declan, they’re pretty good, and that new bloke . . . What’s his name? Dodson. Here’s the address, and I’ll see you sometime tomorrow with the stuff.’
‘What’s the plant then?’
‘Two large earthmovers. The details are outside on the duty rosta. Select numbering, the works. The Jag has got private plates on it.’
‘Okey doke, guv. See yer tomorrer then.’
‘Try not to use the guns this time. Just frighten the bloke.’
‘We’ll only use them to wound, guv. We know what we’re doing.’
‘Be careful, that’s all I ask. Now get on your way.’
The two men left the office. Patrick shook his head. They were two of the biggest lunatics he had ever met, and he had met a few in his time. Still, they got the difficult jobs done and that was the main thing.
He pressed the button on his intercom.
‘Bring me in a cuppa, Debbie, will you?’
‘All right, Mr Kelly.’
He carried on working until Debbie brought him in a cup of tea. She smiled at him, placing the cup on his desk in such a way that he got a glimpse of a fairly considerable pair of breasts.
‘Thanks, love.’
‘Anything else?’ It was a loaded question and Kelly knew it.
No, thank you.’ He smiled at her crestfallen countenance. Before he had met Kate Burrows, she had been on his list of ‘things to do’. He had put her down as Tiffany’s successor. Now he just wished she would leave him alone.
‘Off you go then, Debbie.’
She stamped from the room. Physically she had a lot more to offer than Kate, but for some unknown reason he really fancied the policewoman. There was something about her. When he was with her, buried inside her, Mandy, Renée and everything else was gone from his mind.
For that he was supremely thankful.
Kate heard Caitlin before she saw him. Since the news had spread about him working on the case, the whole of the station had been in a state of excitement. She groaned inwardly. He was like something from a Boy’s Own comic. A real macho man. She stayed seated until the excitement wore off. Caitlin’s loud Irish accent boomed over everyone’s heads.
‘Sure Jesus, would you let a man get some air here!’
Everyone was greeting him. He was a living legend. Poor old Fabian and Spilsbury weren’t even in the running where Caitlin was concerned. He made Sherlock Holmes look amateurish! Kate saw his bulky form moving towards her desk. She had worked with him once before, when she had been a Detective Sergeant. After she had been introduced to him he had sent her to get him a cup of coffee, but not before patting her behind. He had solved the case with a male DS and a DC. Or that was how it had looked on the final report. Kate fixed a smile on her face.
‘Katie! How are you?’ His voice sounded genuinely pleased to see her. She stood up and held out her hand.
‘Chief Inspector Caitlin.’
He looked old. Kate was shocked. The man looked positively ancient. His head was nearly bald, his full mouth had that loose-lipped look peculiar to ageing men, and his startling green eyes were now watery-looking. The lids were wrinkled above them like old venetian blinds.
‘You don’t look a day older than the last time I worked with you.’ The Irish burr was more pronounced than she remembered. ‘I’ve been hearing great things about you, great things.’
Kate smiled.
Caitlin pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her.
‘As we’ll be working together, I thought we could share a desk. Make it more personal.’
Kate felt the smile freeze on her face. The smell of Teacher’s and cheap cigars wafted across the confined space and she cringed inwardly.
Caitlin settled himself in the chair.
‘Now what’s this I hear about this madman driving an Irish Ford?’
Kate’s heavy brows knitted together.
‘I’m sorry? An Irish Ford?’
‘An O’Ryan . . . Orion.’
Kate burst out laughing, causing many pairs of eyes to focus on her. Caitlin laughed with her. He leant across the desk in a confidential manner, scanning the room shrewdly. He tapped his nose.
‘You can call me Kenny.’ He nodded at her and Kate realised with growing dismay that the man was drunk. She forced the smile back on to her face.
‘Whatever you say. Now shall I fill you in on all that I have?’
Caitlin leaned back in his chair. Opening his coat, he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
‘You do that, Katie. The sooner this bastard’s caught the better.’
Well, they agreed on that much anyway. Taking a deep breath, Kate started to talk.
Chapter Twelve
2 January
George had left for work at his usual time of eight fifteen. By ten thirty-five he was walking into Sexplosion. Anthony Jones was behind the counter and George smiled at him tremulously. The shopkeeper gave a large toothy grin.
‘Hello, cocker! Happy New Year.’ He was full of good-humoured camaraderie.
‘Happy New Year
. Er, I have the necessary.’
‘Good, good.’ Tony Jones lifted the serving hatch and invited George through to the back of the shop. He looked around him hesitantly before walking through. There were quite a few customers even this early in the morning. Tony Jones shouted to a dark-haired boy of about eighteen.
‘Emmanuel, watch the shop, I’ve got some business to attend to.’ In the back of the shop he whispered to George: ‘He’s as queer as a nine-bob note, but he’s a good little worker. Right then, look at this!’
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and pressed the play button on a video that stood on a small table. On the television screen above it a young Chinese girl appeared. Her face was a mask of fear.
‘Sit yourself down, mate, I’ll make us a cuppa.’ George sat down and watched the flickering images in front of him. In the dirty little office, he felt the first stirrings of excitement.
An hour later he left with the film tucked firmly under his arm, and a phone number and address in his pocket. He got into his car and began to drive aimlessly around London. It was a dark overcast day; the people milling around all looked grey. Grey and dirty.
George found himself in Paddington and smiled. He rooted around in his coat pocket until he found the address that Tony Jones had given him. He parked his car off Warwick Avenue and, locking it up, began his search. He walked along the Harrow Road until he found the small turning he wanted. He walked into Chippenham Road, scanning the house numbers. When he arrived at the right house he checked the number carefully against his piece of paper. He walked to the front door and looked at the array of bells there.
All the bells had little cards above them.
Flat one: Suzie, French model.
Flat two: Sexy Sadie, full correction.
Flat three: Imogen, Swedish masseuse.
Flat four: Carol, schoolgirl temptress.
Flat five: Beatrice, for naughty boys.
He wanted flat six: Sure enough there it was.
Flat six: Tippy - submission my speciality.
George rang the bell.
‘Yeah, what?’ George was startled. Hardly a submissive voice! He cleared his throat noisily.