Killer Princesses: Gripping and gritty, a twisty and tantalising thriller...

by Jennifer R Hollis

  DS Harris: Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone very red, Debbie. Can I get you something?

  Debbie: No, no. I got in, texted Dawn as I told you before. And when she replied, I fell asleep. I felt exhausted. Why are you asking, do you think something else happened?

  DS Harris: We’re reviewing the case, Debbie. No stone unturned, you know.

  Debbie: Good, good. You should do that.

  DS Harris: Is there anything else you want to tell me, Debbie?

  Debbie: *Pause* No.

  20: Rivals and Alibis

  Monday 10th December 2018 - Vincent

  Okafor’s phone rang towards the end of another late evening shift. He picked it up and accepted the transfer through to Jack Dimont.

  “Vincent, how the devil are you?”

  Jack’s voice sounded lighter, refreshed. Okafor envisaged Jack sitting in a remote picturesque location, away from harm. For a fleeting moment, he felt envious of him.

  “Very well thank you, Jack, and you? New place working out?”

  “Well, there are pros and cons. Witness protection isn’t five-star Vincent, but it’s better than prison. And that’s where I was heading if we hadn’t made our little deal. Speaking of which, what can I do you for?”

  “I need more information on your local competitors, Jack. You mentioned them briefly during our previous discussions,” sighed Okafor.

  His initial conversations with Jack focussed on his suppliers and those higher up the chain. The information was enough to link Jack’s contacts to a much bigger, South London gang. It had led to some high-profile arrests in the north of the borough.

  The Commanders recognised Okafor for his contribution, which buoyed his team. But in the south of the borough, drug-related crime seemed to be rising. To Okafor’s frustration, this indicated that someone else had already moved in to fill the gap.

  “Ah,” chuckled Jack. “I guess the penny’s dropped, then? I expect they’re already covering the whole turf?”

  “Come on, Jack, give me the information,” replied Okafor. It was late, and he was in no mood for Jack’s guessing games.

  “OK, OK. So, there’s something I didn’t tell you a few weeks ago, Vincent. You were doing me an even bigger favour than you thought with this deal. As I told you, when the boys and I got involved in all this, we were only warehousing boxes for the big guys. We didn’t even know it was drugs and stolen goods.

  “Before we knew it, we were laundering money through the businesses and distributing drugs. And we got on with it, but we didn’t have big ambitions, we didn’t want any trouble. We stuck to our turf and kept it all plodding along. I suppose you could say we were complacent, not keeping up with the times.

  “Now earlier this year, some of the lads tell me that the addicts are buying from other sellers. People are selling drugs that aren’t ours, for a lower price. By the time you’d picked me up, I’d already lost about half my trade to this rival group.”

  “You can’t be serious? How did you square that with your suppliers, Jack?” asked Vincent, stunned by this new admission. He knew that Jack wasn’t the only local player, but he had no idea that he’d lost half his trade.

  “I told them another group was on the patch, and they told me to sort it out myself. And they said that if I didn’t, they’d remove me. Well, the boys and I tried, but we didn’t know where to start. As I said, we’d got complacent.”

  “What did you do to keep them off your back?”

  “So, we were in a pickle; had to pretend to the suppliers that we’d sorted it out. Then we pretended we’d made the sales and gave them our own money, so they didn’t suspect anything. We didn’t have a plan for when that ran out, though.”

  Okafor sighed again. He dug the tips of his fingers into the side of his head.

  “What can you tell me about the rival group itself, Jack?” he asked, his voice strained.

  “Well, they have their supply of drugs coming in, which they sell cheap. Rumour has it that an operation from Surrey has pushed up into New Grange, Melwood and South Croydon. And they don’t only sell drugs, mind. They’re in the sex trade, running brothels, trafficking women so I’ve heard, though I never saw any of it myself. Unlicensed bars too, to launder money through. You know yourself how many of those have cropped up recently.”

  “Who’s running it in our local area, Jack? Who’s pulling all the strings? You must have tried to find out?”

  “Well, wouldn’t I like to know!” Jack laughed down the phone. “We did try, but no-one knew anything, or they wouldn’t say anything, at least. They call her ‘The Boss,’ that’s all I know.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, Vincent, ‘her.’ It’s the 21st century; women can be baddies too.”

  “So,” replied Okafor, “we have a woman in Surrey selling drugs, running brothels, laundering money through cash bars. She saw your turf in Croydon as a weak spot and muscled in as a rival.”

  “Yes, Vincent, that’s right. And now I’m gone, I suppose it’s her turf until the big boys from London come down to reclaim what’s theirs.”

  Assuming they don’t come for you first, thought Okafor bitterly. He ended the call and resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall.

  By removing the Dimonts from the area, he’d opened up the remaining turf for another group, who sounded slicker and more resourceful than Jack’s. Now, he faced a new battle against a faceless, nameless enemy. An impatient knock on the door broke his thoughts. He beckoned DS Harris in.

  “Sir, the team have completed the review of the alibis from Janice and Caitlin’s colleagues.”

  “Joanne,” he stopped her and rubbed his eyes. “Do you mind if we pick this up tomorrow morning, it’s been quite a day.”

  “I’m afraid I do mind, sir. I need to debrief you on this immediately.”

  DS Harris gripped the report tightly; her knuckles had gone white.

  “Sit down, Joanne, and talk me through it. And at least give me the good news first.”

  “Sir, we’ve looked into the whereabouts of the seven colleagues, on both the 3rd August and 31st October. We spoke to Peter Goldman. He confirms that Karen was at home on both evenings. There isn’t CCTV on her road, but we don’t see her car on any other roads on either evening. On both nights, she receives but doesn’t answer calls from Pete, though. He says she’d lost her phone both times, he was just calling to help locate it. The phone triangulation does put the phone at home.”

  “Not watertight, but pretty close,” muttered Okafor.

  “Second, the Manager, Gillian. Her husband Kevin provided her alibi on 3rd August, and we have a neighbour confirming him at home. There’s one camera at the Fair Lawns Estate front gate; neither Gillian nor her car leave all evening. On 31st October, she’s seen by dozens of people at the Homestead Community Halloween event. She’s there from 6 pm, and locks herself and others in, between 7.45 pm-ish and 9 pm. There are no cameras in Homestead, but the estate camera picks her up at 9.30 pm, and she doesn’t go back out.”

  Okafor nodded; that seemed watertight unless Gillian could be in two places at once.

  “Next, Jade. She lied to us about the 3rd of August; she wasn’t at home. A camera catches her walking up Melwood High Street at 7 pm, then she turns towards Croydon. We’ve tracked her to the town centre at 8 pm-ish, and then we lose her off the main High Street. She reappears at about 2 am walking the same route back home. Now I know that raises questions, but on the 31st she was the one working the evening shift at the supermarket. She didn’t leave until 9.30 pm, then walked back down Melwood High Street to her home.”

  “Good. We should ask Jade why she lied about the 3rd, though. She might have seen something. Now, the next ones?”

  DS Harris took a deep breath and looked down at the table.

  “Ethan Hutchins, the young guy. On 3rd August, he told us he was in the pub, and the landlord confirmed this. Now we’ve looked at pub CCTV, and we see Ethan stumble to the toilets at a
round 9.30 pm. He only reappears at 10.30 pm. So, either he was in the bathroom for an hour, or he slipped out the back door and went somewhere else. On the 31st, he emerged from the Melwood backroads at 9.20 pm and loitered outside the supermarket. Then, he followed Jade at a distance back down Melwood High Street, then went home.”

  “Weird, very weird. Add Ethan to the list to bring in. Next one?”

  “Renee. She said she was at home ill on 3rd August. But, that was a lie. We have her car popping up at 8 pm in Melwood, driving up towards Homestead, where she goes off-grid. She returns, via the same route, at about 10.45 pm. No phone data for the entire period, she’d switched it off.”

  “Jesus, that would give her time to park up, switch the vehicle, commit the crime and switch back.”

  “In theory, sir, yes. But she’s harder to pin down on the 31st. We asked her a couple of days ago, and she said she was ill again. Her phone puts her at home, and her car stayed there all night. She gets a load of messages and calls through the evening from known contacts, which she picks up, at home. Curiously, though, there is one call, unanswered, from an unknown number at 8 pm. The caller triangulates to the area around Dawn’s house.”

  Okafor rubbed his head.

  “Let me go to Marie. On 3rd August, her phone puts her at home in east Melwood. She messages Renee a few times, including once at 10 pm. Now, if that’s her sending the message, she couldn’t have killed Janice. But, on Halloween, we pick her up leaving her house at 6.15 pm, driving to a road near Dawn’s, where we lose her. Her phone is off, and she reappears the next morning, driving straight out of the backroads and into work.”

  “So, what on earth was she doing all night?” Okafor’s mind raced. Were Renee and Marie responsible for the deaths of three colleagues? Did Renee commit the first murders, and then send Marie to kill Dawn? The evidence certainly pointed towards that.

  “We need to bring Renee and Marie in immediately, to explain themselves. We should get access to the content of the messages, too. And Jade and Ethan, call them in, too.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” said DS Harris, her hands shaking. “There’s someone else we need to bring in before them.”

  “Who?”

  “I haven’t given you the debrief on Debbie Gomez, yet.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Okafor, as the blood drained from his face. He thought of Debbie and her helpful, thorough interviews, her remorse and sadness. Surely she wasn’t involved?

  “On the 3rd of August, sir, she told us that her friends were at her house in Melwood until 10 pm. There’s no CCTV, but we checked with them, and they said they definitely left by 9.40 pm. That would have given Debbie ample time to leave and commit the crime.”

  “But her husband confirmed she stayed at home after they left, and there’s no motive. What about Halloween?”

  “We have her car driving through Melwood. She sped through the store lorry park, exited onto the main road then turned into the backroads. She told us about that. What she didn’t tell us was that she turned into Dawn’s street at 8.07 pm,” Joanne paused as Okafor’s mouth dropped.

  “There isn’t CCTV on Dawn’s road, but Debbie exits it again at 8.15 pm, and drives around the corner into her road.”

  “It’s not enough time to kill someone and stage it in that way, is it? What about the text, between her and Dawn and 8.30 pm? It doesn’t make sense, Joanne.”

  “It doesn’t, sir, I know. But why on earth didn’t she tell us she was there? Has this concerned and mourning friend thing just been an act? It would explain her behaviour at the funeral; saying she knew the truth and apologising to Dawn.”

  Vincent took a deep breath and tried to take it all in.

  “There are huge holes in this Joanne, huge holes. The person who killed Janice and Caitlin so professionally wouldn’t drive their own car into Dawn’s road on CCTV. Would both Karen and the husband both turn a blind eye to it? I don’t believe Debbie Gomez is capable of this unless she’s the world’s best actress.” Okafor rubbed his eyes and temples again.

  “But you’re right. Debbie’s alibi doesn’t stand up for the 3rd. She’s at the scene of the crime on the 31st. You heard her saying she knew Dawn’s death wasn’t suicide. She has a lot of explaining to do, even more so than the others. Arrange surveillance on her house overnight to make sure she stays indoors. We’ll bring her in first thing tomorrow under caution and secure a warrant to search her house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  21: It Wasn’t Me

  Tuesday 11th December 2018 - Debbie & Vincent

  Debbie’s incessant alarm woke her up to dark, damp fog swirling outside the window. She ran through her schedule for the day: packed lunches, school runs, Christmas shopping, wrapping presents, chores. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the kind of day she preferred at the moment; busy but not too challenging.

  It had been a strange month since Gillian announced Dawn’s death in the cold and crowded staff canteen. In the week after the announcement, Debbie’s sense of grief had consumed her. The shock came in waves every time someone mentioned Dawn’s name.

  Another week passed, and she found it slightly easier to tell herself that Dawn was at peace. After three weeks, she felt a little lighter. Life was much less scary when she wasn’t pursuing the truth about Janice and Caitlin. Of course, nagging feelings still emerged at quiet moments of the day, and they often kept her awake at night. She felt a particular pang when she saw a young girl from New Grange looking tired or sad. Debbie knew something terrible was happening to them, yet she was too scared to get to the bottom of it or go to the police.

  She was frightened of the masked figure she’d seen outside Dawn’s house on Halloween night. She was sure they’d killed Dawn to protect the same secret that Janice and Caitlin had discovered. She was also sure they’d stolen Dawn’s phone and then sent her a reassuring message, pretending all was well.

  She had just finished the lunches when the doorbell rang twice, followed by a short sharp knock. Joe ran down the stairs and opened the door before her, as Debbie zipped up her tracksuit and ran to join him.

  “Mrs Gomez,” said the uniformed officer. “We need you to come to the station to answer questions about the murder of Janice Locke and Caitlin Murphy, and the death of Dawn Smith.”

  “Oh no, I really can’t,” replied Debbie as Joe rolled his eyes. “I’ve got such a busy day. Why didn’t you call me to arrange an appointment?”

  “Mrs Gomez,” said the other uniformed officer, “we have the authority to bring you in under caution. It’s your decision whether we invoke that or not.”

  “What?” Debbie and Joe gasped at the same time. They looked to DS Harris, who nodded gravely to confirm. Joe started to protest further, but Debbie held her hand up to him.

  “There’s been some kind of mistake,” she sighed. “Joe, take the kids to school and don’t worry. I’ll see you when you get home,” she continued, as she followed DS Harris into the police car.

  An hour later, she sat with a tape recorder ahead of her, and a mirror on her right-hand side. Two empty chairs were opposite her, nearest to the door, and there was another one to her left. She’d declined the offer of legal representation because, after all, why would she need it?

  DS Harris entered the room with an older colleague who Debbie didn’t recognise. DC Jameson, an embattled fifty-something from the Violent Crime Unit, introduced himself in a broad northern accent.

  “Why have you forced me here and then left me sitting alone for an hour?” demanded Debbie, as she drummed her fingers on the table edge.

  “We’re questioning you in connection with the murders of Janice Locke and Caitlin Murphy,” DC Jameson answered. “And the death of Dawn Smith. You have waived your right to representation. For the tape, please state your name.”

  “Oh, right. It’s Debbie,” she said and then saw him roll his eyes. “Oh, Deborah Anne Gomez, sorry. Can I just ask…”

  “We’d like to start, Deborah, on the
3rd August,” he said, cutting her off. “Where were you between 9.30 pm and 10 pm?”

  “I’ve told you this! I was at home. I had my neighbours, the Millers, around for dinner and drinks. They left at, I don’t know, 10ish, then Joe and I tidied up and went to bed.”

  “We’ve spoken to your neighbours, Debbie,” said DC Jameson, leaning forwards towards her. “They say they left at 9.40 pm.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps they did. We’d had a few glasses of wine, and I could have got the timing wrong, what does it matter?”

  “What exactly were you doing Deborah, after the Millers left?”

  “I’ve told you, tidying up and then we went to bed. You can’t think I sent the neighbours home and then dashed off to kill Janice and Caitlin?”

  Debbie’s heart sank as she looked at DS Harris and DC Jameson and realised that was exactly what they thought. Her leg began to shake under the table.

  “No, no, I was their friend, I would never...” she spluttered, feeling a rising panic in her chest.

  “Ask Joe, he’ll tell you. I was at home with him after they left.”

  “We will ask Joe,” said DS Harris. “Let’s move to last week, Thursday 6th December, though we may return to 3rd August later.”

  “The 6th, Dawn’s funeral,” muttered Debbie, and DS Harris nodded.

  “You said a few words at the funeral, Deborah, why was that?”

  “Well, I felt awful that no-one, not even her family, was going to say anything. I wanted to say something nice about her.”

  “You said ‘I knew the truth, I’m sorry I didn’t prevent it.’ What did that mean?” Asked DC Jameson in a stern voice.

  The soles of Debbie’s feet and the palms of her hands began to tingle, and a cold shiver ran up her spine. She fiddled with a hairband on her wrist.

  DC Jameson sighed and looked at DS Harris, who nodded.

  “Why, Debbie, at the same funeral, did you say to Karen Goldman: ‘We both know it wasn’t suicide’?”

  Debbie recalled the conversation with Karen after the service. She’d said exactly that, and then she’d seen DS Harris outside the toilets when she left. She took a deep breath. It was time to come clean about her suspicions.