by Martina Cole
‘Oh of course, your daughter. Well it’s a pity you didn’t think of your daughter when you were whoring your way around the world, isn’t it? The poor little mare wasn’t even in the running then was she? WAS SHE?’
Dan stared at Kate in bewilderment. He realised that he’d opened up a can of worms.
‘All I’m saying is, Kate . . .’
‘You know your trouble, Dan? You don’t know when you’re well off. I don’t like to remind you of this, but if it wasn’t for me, you’d be in a bedsit somewhere now, living off the DHSS. I allow you to stay in my home because of Lizzy, but I warn you now, Dan, if you try and interfere in my life, I’ll have you out the front door so fast you’ll burn a hole in the carpet. Do I make myself clear?’
Dan’s face was scarlet and for a fleeting second Kate felt ashamed of herself.
‘Perfectly.’
He went from the kitchen quietly.
Kate let her breath out and put her head in her hands.
‘He asked for that, Katie. Don’t you go feeling bad now.’
‘Oh Mum. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have said any of it. But he annoys me so much.’
‘Let me get you another coffee. Who is this Pat, by the way, or am I going to get my head bitten off as well?’
‘He’s a man I met during the course of my work.’
‘Is that the one you spent the New Year with?’
Kate looked at her mother sharply and seeing the mischievous look on her face she grinned.
‘It is actually.’
Evelyn held out her arms wide. ‘You’re a grown woman, Kate, you do whatever you want. Personally I think it’s about time you had a bit of life.’
Kate smiled. She felt it was about time too, but Patrick Kelly was dangerous for her. For her career. He was a danger to everything, but knowing that, admitting it to herself did no good. She wanted him desperately. He gave her so much pleasure when she was with him and she had been lonely for so long. So very, very long. After the New Year, she could no more give him up now than she could cut off her own hands.
She had only been mad at Dan, because he had brought up Patrick’s name when she wanted him to be a secret.
But it wouldn’t be a secret for long.
She lit another cigarette. What would she do when the secret was out?
She would cross that bridge when she came to it. Everything people said about Kelly was supposition, nothing against him had ever been proved and in this country you were innocent until proven guilty. The thought had a hollow ring to it.
Kate felt she was tumbling headlong into something that she was not strong enough to fight.
But fight it she would.
If the time came.
Chapter Thirteen
Sexplosion was just getting busy when Tony Jones saw Tippy walk through the door. He smiled at her.
‘Bloody hell, girl, you don’t half look rough.’
Tippy’s face was drawn and white.
‘I want to talk to you Tony, now!’
He was puzzled. ‘All right, girl, come through to my office.’
He looked around the shop for Emmanuel, who was trying to pick up an elderly man in a smart business suit.
‘Emmanuel, get behind this bloody counter now! Come through, Tippy love.’ He opened the serving hatch and she limped through.
In the dingy back room, the Tom sat down on the ramshackle chair. Tony watched her warily. There was something wrong here. He hoped she didn’t have AIDS or something. She did look ill, and Tippy looked rough at the best of times. All the birds who worked the submission trade did.
‘Got any booze, Tone?’
He opened a small cupboard in an old sideboard and took out of a bottle of Gordon’s gin.
‘I ain’t got nothing to go with it. Will you drink it straight?’
Tippy nodded. ‘I’d drink of a cup of cold piss at this moment in time, Tony, if it blotted out the world. I’ve never felt so bad in all my life.’
Tony poured her out a generous measure into a half pint glass. ‘Here you are, girl, get your laughing gear around that.’
Tippy took a long drink. Tony noticed that her hands were shaking. He bit his bottom lip in consternation.
‘Look, I ain’t being funny, love, but I ain’t got all day.’
She looked at him with hooded eyes.
‘That punter you sent me yesterday . . . he was weird, Tone, really weird.’
Tony relaxed. Was that all?
‘They’re all weird, girl . . .’
She interrupted him.
‘No, not normal weird. He was a nutter, Tony. A bloody nutter.’
Tony pictured mild-mannered George. He liked a bit of old bluey, and admittedly they were a bit near the mark, but that aside he seemed a nice, quiet, polite man.
‘You’re just feeling low, Tippy. All brasses feel like that at holiday times . . .’
She laughed scornfully.
‘Listen, Tone, I’ve been on the game for eighteen years, woman and girl, and I’ve had some strange ones in my time, but never anyone like this. Look . . .’
She stood up and lifted her skirt. She heard Tony’s intake of breath.
‘Stone me, Tip, he done that?’
She nodded, big tears welling in her eyes. ‘They’re all over me. On me tits, arse, the lot.’
Tony stared at the criss-cross cuts all over Tippy’s thighs. Some were superficial and some looked deep. All were scabbed over. Purple and black bruises abounded.
‘I’ve been pissing blood all night, Tony. He shoved something up inside me.’ Her voice broke. ‘He tied me up and he had a knife. He kept holding it at me throat and threatening me . . .’
She began to cry in earnest and Tony, for the first time in his life, felt emotion for a working girl. He took her in his arms and cuddled her.
‘All right, Tippy. Calm down, love.’
‘How am I gonna work while I’m like this, Tone? I’ll be out of action for weeks. And supposing he comes back? He knows where I live, he knows I won’t go to the Old Bill.’ Her face was grimy with tears and Tony set her gently on the chair.
‘Listen, Tippy, I’ll give you enough to tide you over. And I’ll have a talk with the bloke, all right? Make sure he leaves you alone in future. OK?’
‘Promise.’
‘I promise. Now how about I take you to a doctor I know in Swiss Cottage. Payment on the nose and no questions asked. How’s that?’
Tippy nodded, wiping her streaming face with her hands.
‘I’ll just go and tell Emmanuel to mind the shop and we’ll be on our way.’
Tony Jones walked from the room. Who would have thought it? A polite little bloke like that with a tiger in his tank? Tony shook his head in wonderment. He’d have to sort George out in a delicate way. He didn’t want to lose a regular customer. He’d just warn him off Tippy by saying she’d got herself a big coon for a boyfriend. There was nothing like a big coon or a dose of clap to get rid of a punter.
He shook his head again. Poor old Tippy. She’d be scarred for life.
Terry Miller picked up the Grantley Times. He had just made himself a cup of coffee and sat in his mum’s kitchen smoking a cigarette. There were six Miller children, ranging in age from nineteen to seven. Terry was eighteen and his brother Charlie nineteen. To sit in relative peace and quiet in the Miller house was a very rare occurrence and Terry was enjoying it. That was until he saw what was on the front page.
It was a picture of Louise Butler and Terry recognised her at once as the girl who had run out in front of his car on the night of the rave. The girl who was being chased by the bloke in the weird headgear. He had had to swerve to avoid them. He read the article and frowned. They believed she had been murdered by the Grantley Ripper although as yet no body had turned up. He ran his hands through his hair. Should he go to the police?
If he went to them he would have to admit that he left her there. That he was high as a kite on Ecstasy and had thought they were larking abou
t!
He screwed up the paper and threw it on the kitchen table.
He knew what he would do. He would talk it over with Charlie when he got in from work.
Terry relaxed a bit now that he had made a decision. Charlie would know what to do. He always did.
The search for Louise Butler had been going on for over two days. Police had covered every piece of waste ground, undergrowth, field, wood. Even the quarry.
Nothing.
Kate Burrows and Kenneth Caitlin were getting worried. If something didn’t break, and soon, they would be back to square one. Frogmen had dragged the local river. Every shed and garage and outbuilding had been searched. Louise Butler had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Every sex pest and rapist had been interviewed and their whereabouts checked out.
Still nothing.
The Grantley Ripper looked set for a long reign of terror.
Kate sat in her office staring at the files in front of her. She rubbed her eyes with her finger and thumb of her right hand. She was bone tired. Caitlin was off at the BBC studios, he was appearing on Crimewatch later in the evening. He had walked in and taken over and the marvel man had come up with nothing. Kate looked around her at the busy incident room.
Phones were ringing, computer screens were displaying information, and still there was nothing to go on. She thought again of the Leicester murders. If they could get even some of the men in Grantley to take the blood test they would be halfway home. Because if only three thousand of the potential five thousand male suspects took the test, that was three thousand they could eliminate. There was also the chance that the man himself would go for the test. If they sent haematologists around local firms and offices then men would be honour bound to take the blood test when they saw their colleagues taking it. A subtle form of coercion.
But no one in authority would even countenance the idea. Money. It all came down to bloody money.
Kate chewed on her bottom lip. There must be something she had missed.
Even Geoffrey Winbush’s statement only told them that Louise had been on the Woodham Road. Surely someone else must have seen her? She was a good-looking girl, dressed in a purple and gold tracksuit and man’s flying jacket. She would not be easy to miss. Eight hundred youngsters had been at that rave. Someone must have noticed her.
Kate stared back at the files in front of her.
The people who owned dark-coloured Orions were still being interviewed. Nothing yet. There were only a few names left on the list from the DVLC. Maybe the man had lived in Grantley at one time and now lived somewhere else? That idea had occurred to her before now, but a gut feeling told her that he was still living locally. And if he was, the best way to catch him was through blood testing. Back to square one.
Her phone rang and she picked it up.
‘Hello. DI Kate Burrows here.’
‘Hello, Kate.’
She felt her heart miss a beat. It was Patrick Kelly. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I can’t promise what time I’ll be there, I’ll have to ring you as I’m leaving work. We’re pretty snowed under . . .’
‘Nothing yet then?’ His voice was flat.
‘No, nothing concrete.’
‘I’ll see you later then. ’Bye.’
‘’Bye.’ Kate replaced the receiver and smiled. She was getting to like Patrick Kelly. Getting to like him a lot. Yet the sensible part of her was telling her to grow up. She was a policewoman and he was a . . .
He was a what?
He was a nice man, that’s what he was, and when she left this station her life was her own!
She picked up the file and began to read again. She was being paid to find this murderer, and find him she would!
Charlie Miller came in from work at six fifteen. The house was, as usual, in pandemonium by then. All the children were in, and their Irish ancestry made loud arguing the norm. Like most children from big families, they had learnt to outshout one another at an early age. Charlie went straight up to the room that he shared with Terry and put on a Fine Young Cannibals tape. He was in the middle of getting underssed as his brother walked in with the paper.
‘All right, Tel?’
He shook his head and sat on the bottom of the bunk beds.
‘No, actually, I ain’t.’
Charlie frowned and stopped in the middle of taking off his shirt. Terry did look bad. He sat beside him.
‘What’s the matter, bruv? You got aggravation?’ His voice was low. Even though there was only a year between the two boys, Charlie looked on Terry as his little brother.
‘It’s about that bird who went missing . . . Louise Butler. Look.’
He opened the paper and Charlie glanced at it. Terry watched his brother’s face.
‘It’s that bird from the other night! The one with the weird bloke in the mask!’
Terry nodded.
‘I reckon we should go to the police. Tell them we saw her.’ Charlie shook his head vigorously.
‘Not on your bleeding nelly, mate. I ain’t going nowhere near them. And neither are you!’
‘But, Charlie . . .’
He pulled off his shirt and threw it into the corner of the tiny room.
‘No buts, Tel . . . Leave it!’
Terry knew by the sound of his brother’s voice that he had to do as he was told. Charlie didn’t like people disagreeing with him.
Terry ground his teeth in consternation. The girl was missing. She could still be alive.
Charlie looked at his brother and sighed. Terry was such a soft touch. He pulled off his work jeans and threw them on to the little pile in the corner. He hunkered down and looked into his brother’s face.
‘Listen, Tel, I’m sorry about that bird and all. It’s that Ripper bloke they’re all going on about. But for all that, I ain’t putting my . . . or your . . . face in the frame. Get it?’
Terry nodded.
‘Good. Now don’t let me hear any more about it. Besides, we was out of our nuts. What the hell could we tell them that would do any good?’
With that, Charlie picked up his deodorant and shampoo and went to have his bath, leaving Terry sitting on the bed, his mind in a turmoil. Fine Young Cannibals were singing ‘Johnny Come Home’ and listening to the words made Terry feel like crying. He wished Louise Butler would come back home and be safe, then he could stop thinking about her.
Turning off the tape, he lay on the bottom bunk and crossed his arms under his head.
They had nearly run her over. If the Grantley Ripper had got her, as the papers seemed to think, he wished now that they had. At least her end would have been short and quick.
Elaine and George were sitting in their lounge watching South East at Six when the story of Louise Butler’s disappearance came on the air. As her photograph appeared on the screen, Elaine shook her head.
‘Oh, George, isn’t it terrible?’
Louise was in her school uniform and looked very young. Quite unlike the girl of the previous Saturday.
‘Yes, dear. That’s all they’ve talked about at work, you know.’
‘Same with us. Her mother uses my supermarket. How must she be feeling? It must be like a nightmare. This is the third one, isn’t it? I was reading in the Sun today that the other girl, what’s her name, her father is a London gangster!’
‘Mandy Kelly.’
‘That’s it, Mandy Kelly. Imagine you remembering her name like that.’
George felt a tightening around his heart. It was fear.
‘Oh, it stuck in my mind, that’s all.’
Was Elaine looking at him oddly?
‘Would you like a nice cuppa, dear?’
Before she could answer there was a loud banging on the front door.
‘Goodness me, who on earth can that be?’ Elaine’s voice was high. People knocking at the door was a very unusual event in this household. She stood up quickly to answer it.
George remained seated. He w
as still trying to recover from his earlier slip. He looked even more surprised when Elaine walked into the lounge with two men.
‘George, this is Detective Sergeant Willis and PC Hemmings. They want to have a word with you.’ Elaine’s voice was quavering.
‘Can I make you two gentlemen a cup of tea or coffee?’
Willis smiled. ‘Tea would be lovely, madam.’
George sat in his seat, stunned.
They knew it was him! They had come for him!
‘Please sit down. Would you like fresh tea, George?’
He could feel his head moving up and down of its own accord. He was aware of Elaine leaving the room. His eyes were glued to the two men now sitting on his couch. He could feel his breathing quicken and strove desperately to control it.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but we are questioning everyone in Grantley with a dark blue saloon car. It’s just so we can eliminate people from our inquiries.’
Eliminate. Eliminate. Eliminate. They didn’t know. They didn’t know. George smiled.
Outside the lounge door Elaine relaxed as well. Walking to the kitchen, she filled the electric kettle, her heart hammering in her chest.
George would never do anything like that. What had made her think that he would? She was too hard on him.
It was just the shock of seeing two policemen on her doorstep. It was like the other time. The terrible time. Then a thought occurred to her. Would they bring that up now? All these years later?
She set about making a pot of tea.
George would never do anything like that again. Never. Not in a million years.
In the lounge, Willis and Hemmings were listening to George’s account of where he had been on the nights of the murders and the disappearance.
‘I was in bed with terrible flu. My wife can vouch for that, officers. May I ask you a question?’
‘Certainly.’
‘If one of you is a police constable, surely he should be in uniform?’
Willis smiled.
‘On these kind of cases, sir, we try to be as informal as possible. We recruit uniformed officers into plain clothes so that people like yourself, who are being eliminated, won’t feel under pressure. From neighbours etcetera.’