by Bo Brennan
Did she just say Goldilocks? Was she taking the fucking piss? What sort of pathetic tag was that? ‘The Goldilocks Rapist.’ She was either deliberately trying to wind him up or the meathead was behind it. Only that lairy bastard could come up with a little gem like that. He must know her. If he didn’t he’d make it his business to. As soon as he clapped eyes on this, he'd have his dick up her faster than a rat up a drain pipe. Cunt.
With the exception of the chewing gum, India Kane thought she did all right. She hated gum at the best of times, but particularly hated swallowing it. Unfortunately it was swallow or stick it to the underside of the table, and someone would definitely have caught that on film.
Now the floor was all theirs she could relax a little, it was time for MLO Sly Majors to earn his money. The crumpled seasoned hack in the back row was first in. “Paul Newman, BBC. Detective do you have any suspect information you can give us?”
“Come on, Paul, you know we can't give out that sort of information. Needless to say we’re following several lines of inquiry,” Sly said, and swiftly gestured to a woman in the front row. “Miranda?”
“Good morning, Sly, Detective Kane. Miranda Ayres, Channel 4. If you'll pardon the pun, it's all a bit Grimm. But why Goldilocks?”
“The women were all raped in their own beds. Kelvin?” India sat stony faced as he blasted that one out. The reporters scribbled frantically. It was too late to worry about whether that information should've come out or not. It sure as shit was out there now.
“Kelvin King, ITV. Can you give us any indication of how Ms Matthews was killed?”
“As Detective Kane has already clearly stated, we cannot speculate on the cause of death until the post mortem has been completed.”
For the next fifteen minutes Sly batted their quick-fire questions like a ping pong champion. Not getting drawn, even scolding them when they got cheeky and pushed too far, but always with great charm. And she was surprised that he knew most of them personally. It was easy to see how he would be a big asset, officiating the smooth flow of information from the incident room to the press and, ultimately, the public.
India had always regarded the press with contempt, saw them as Vultures feeding on the misery of others, but Sly had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
Yes, she was confident she'd done all right. Sly Majors on the other hand was great.
Colt rifled through the last box of documents on the incident room floor, mobile phone pressed awkwardly between his shoulder and ear, while he blew smoke up Miranda Ayres’ arse.
“Yeah, you were great Maz, I owe you one . . . uh-huh, very clever . . . actually it wasn't Grimm, though,” Colt rolled his eyes, “. . . some say Robert Southney, but I can assure it wasn’t the brothers Grimm . . . I'm sure you will . . . soon.”
At the first mention of dinner, he screwed up his face. The woman was a royal pain in the arse, he should’ve known better. All he’d asked her to do was question the origins of the name and now he owed her. Unexpectedly his flesh prickled and he got the overwhelming feeling he was being watched. He stood up to see India standing in the doorway clutching the file he was searching for, and beckoned her in with a wink and a smile. Without a further word he ended the call and slung his phone on the table.
“I’ve been looking for that,” he said, slumping into a chair.
“You were right,” India said, handing him the file containing the envelope scans. “I used my contact at Royal Mail to cross reference the known addresses. There’s a post box on every street.”
“Well done.” Colt smiled and looked at his watch. “You did great today, coming for a drink to celebrate?”
“No,” she said, staring at him. “I've got plans.”
Probably just as well, he couldn't get that bra out of his mind.
Chapter 20
Olivio’s, Park Gate
Terri and Clare were already seated, half way through a bottle of Merlot and pawing over a dog- eared copy of GQ magazine when India joined them at the table.
“Why didn't you tell us you were going to be on the telly?” Clare screeched. “We only found out because Gray phoned and told us to put the news on.”
“I didn't know myself until this morning. Colt sprang it on me last minute.”
“Now that bit we did know about,” Terri said. “Explains the hair too, looks great by the way, super shiny.”
India frowned. “Which bit?”
“Just put us out of our misery,” Terri said, slumping across the table. “Is AJ Colt as sexy in the flesh as he is in print?”
“Let me guess, Gray told you that too, right?” She shook her head, what the hell was his problem?
“No, Dad did,” Clare said. “He also said you were hitting the bottle.”
India frowned, why the fuck couldn't people just leave her alone?
“Don't do that face, I hate that face,” Terri said. “He called Gray to take you home because he was worried about you.”
“Can I get you a drink, miss?” the waiter asked, without bothering to lift his eyes from his order pad.
“Glass of house white,” India said, staring at Terri and Clare, daring them to try and stop her. “A large one.”
“Actually, just bring the bottle and another one of these, please.” Terri pointed to the half empty bottle of Merlot already on the table, while Clare ogled the strawberry-blonde waiter’s butt.
India huffed and rolled her eyes, it was all right for her to mix it up when they wanted something. A couple of glasses of wine and they knew she'd get loose lipped and spill all. They'd be sorely disappointed tonight for there was absolutely nothing to spill.
The waiter turned his back on the restaurant of diners, his hands trembling as he punched in the phone number. Agitated he picked at the order pad, tearing off a corner; his fingers busily rolled a small tight paper ball that fell at his feet when the receiver was picked up.
“She's here, in the restaurant,” he whispered.
“Who?”
“India,” he whispered, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece
“Are you sure it's her?” the voice asked.
“Yeah, she's with two women talking about being on TV this morning. What shall I do?”
“What you’re there for,” the voice responded without hesitation. “And don't forget she's dangerous.”
“I'm at work,” he whispered fiercely, glancing back over his hunched shoulder at her table.
“I need her Liam, don't disappoint me,” the voice spat, and the line went dead.
He stared at the receiver in his hand, banged it back into the cradle and wiped his sweaty trembling palm on his leg. He took one last glance at their table and smiled at the long haired blonde before disappearing into the kitchen.
“He's my boss,” India slurred, pushing her plate away.
“And?” Terri said, beckoning the waiter. “He’s hot as hell.”
“He's an arrogant arsehole,” India said, rolling her eyes.
“You're hardly Miss Congeniality yourself,” Terri said.
“He's shagging everything with a pulse,” India said.
“Except you.” Clare giggled and grabbed her wrist, checking that she was indeed alive.
“GQ says he's looking for lurve,” Terri said, failing in her attempt to pull the magazine from the bag at her feet and almost toppling from her chair. “AJ Colt is ready to settle down.”
India huffed a chuckle. “Sure he is,” she said. “That's why he's shagging the case shrink and some snooty bint from Channel 4. I don't know why you bother reading that shit.”
“He can settle down on me anytime.” Terri sighed. “You want to get in there before one of them snaps him up for good.”
“Yeah right,” India said, subconsciously rubbing the side of her face, “you haven’t seen his type. He’s strictly a tits, teeth and tan man.”
“Stop putting yourself down,” Clare said, and turned her eyes to the waiter, “you're gorgeous.”
Indi
a got the distinct impression her last comment was aimed at him not her. They'd been making eyes at each other all sodding night, and it was making her feel sick. “For god’s sake get a bloody room,” she mumbled. India only ever felt gorgeous in the dark, drunk presence of strangers.
“Can we get another bottle of red and another bottle of white here, please?” Terri said. “Oh, and if you’re single, your telephone number for Clare here would be good too, thanks.”
India spluttered on her wine when Clare turned scarlet, no doubt wishing the ground would simply open up and devour her right there and then. The unfazed waiter flashed her a smile that was more at home in a toothpaste advert than a pokey restaurant in Park Gate and obligingly jotted his number down, pressing it into Clare’s eager hand before returning to the bar to fulfil their order.
“How many times have I told you two that guys don't get subtle?” Terri said. “It's not complicated. They have basic primal instincts. If you don't tell them, they don't know.”
India snorted a laugh. “You’re hardly an authority on men. You haven't gotten laid in months.”
“That’s because unlike you, I prefer memorably good sex,” she said. “And you only get that when you know your partner. And I don’t mean just their first name.”
India shrugged, the sex she got was good enough, it was alcohol that made it forgettable.
Clare smiled at the piece of paper in her hand. “His name’s Zane,” she said as he returned and refilled her glass, kissing her hand before departing again. “So romantic,” she gushed. “God, don’t you just love that in a man?”
India rolled her eyes and slurped her wine. “It’s just a ploy to get in your knickers, Clare.”
“I bet AJ Colt’s a romantic,” Terri sighed.
“Only if you class getting knocked out by an erection romantic,” India slurred.
“Oh my god that was you?” Clare said excitedly. “Kelly was telling mum and dad about it on Monday night. She didn’t mention he had a bloody hard on!”
. “My head still hurts now,” India mumbled.
“Tell that to a doctor,” Terri said, draining the last of the bottle of white wine into India’s glass. “We’re only interested in the other bit.”
India tutted and leant her elbows unsteadily on the table. “He was hard, you know, everywhere.” She swilled her wine and narrowed her eyes. “Smells good too, does some strange shit to my stomach, makes me feel sick.”
Clare and Terri turned to each other and burst out laughing.
Chapter 21
Wednesday 8th December
India walked into the main office and frowned, there were unfamiliar faces everywhere. A surprisingly energetic and refreshed looking Colt was busily directing a group of attentive police personnel shifting furniture about the place. He gave her a broad smile and wink when he saw her, and her stomach lurched her breakfast around. She wasn’t sure how much was hangover and how much was concussion, but paracetamol weren’t cutting it and her head still ached like hell.
He bounded across the office towards her, his smart black trousers tightening around sportsman's thighs. “The press conference response has been overwhelming,” he beamed, engulfing her in a cloud of expensive aftershave. Her breakfast squirmed again. She didn't like that feeling one bit. “We’ve been allocated extra bodies, got leads coming out of our ears.”
“This lot here to follow them up?” she said, glancing around at the chaos.
“Yep,” he said, “and we’ve got the Havant lot. Mark and Lucy will be working here until we’re finished.”
“Great,” India said dully, unable to muster even the slightest enthusiasm at the prospect of working with Wanker Watson and his peroxide poke. Her need to get some decent pain relief suddenly intensified.
“Nationwide priority, too,” Colt said theatrically raising an eyebrow. “Beat Bobbies are at our disposal across all counties.”
“Someone high up must have an even higher toe up their arse then,” India said.
“If you're going in, would you grab me a coffee while I sort these guys out?”
“Sure,” India said. “Anything else you need just give Sangrin a shout.”
Colt laughed as she sauntered off to the coffee machine, stony faced. Lee Sangrin couldn’t give him what he needed. Only she could do that.
“No one speaks to the press,” Len said. “Direct all enquiries to MLO Majors.”
“Have we got anything of significance yet?” Colt was full of hope.
“Thirty-three claiming to be victims,” Len said, raising his brows, “and four potential suspect names.”
“What?” Lee said. “We haven't even got thirty-three outstanding victims.”
“Hence not releasing the small detail of the DVD,” Lacey said.
Lee smirked and lifted his chin. “Ah, clever.”
“Local forces will do their best to get every potential victim interviewed this week,” Len said. “Any that turn up DVDs will come straight back to us.”
“Excellent,” Colt said. “Forensics?”
“Nothing as yet,” Vicky said. “Gray Davies is sending over the Arson report this afternoon.”
“Have we got a confirmed ID from the dentistry yet?”
“It's going to take a little longer than expected.” Vicky shifted in her seat. “Her fillings melted.”
“They melted?” Tom said. “I thought the teeth were fail proof.”
“You released her name to the press without formal identification?” DC Lucy Levington said, making her presence at the table felt.
“They are Tom,” Vicky said, blatantly ignoring her. “Usually the fleshy bits of the tongue and cheek protect them, even in a fire, but she had old silver amalgam fillings and the high temperature evaporated the mercury. We can still match them, it will just take a little bit longer that's all.”
Colt frowned. “That's a new one on me.”
“She also had significant internal larynx burns,” Vicky added. “Kathleen thinks he filled her mouth with petrol.”
A series of disgusted mutterings rippled through the room. Colt drew a deep breath and glanced around at the horrified faces. It made sense; most of them had seen what else he’d put in her mouth. India didn’t look horrified, she looked focused and composed. He wondered if she'd be able to maintain that cool facade when confronted with the bereaved family at Sharon Cutler’s funeral later. She was flanked by Veronica frowning hard and shaking her head and . . . Lacey. Lacey ceased her intense study of India Kane’s expressionless face when she felt Colt’s eyes on her.
“But she was already dead, right?” Lucy said matter-of-factly
“We won’t know for sure until the Post Mortem is carried out,” Vicky said. “But we’re expecting the cause of death to be asphyxiation.”
“No surprise there then,” Lee murmured. “We all saw him choke the living shit out of her.”
“I didn’t,” Lucy said indignantly. “When can Mark and I watch it?”
Colt raised his brows, taken aback by her preoccupation with the gory shit. “You don't need to,” he said, staring at her before turning his attention to Mark. “You and Lucy stay on Martha’s movements. We know she was alive when her friend left after lunch at 3 pm on Wednesday 1st, and dead by 8 am on Friday the 3rd when the DVD was posted. Where was she between those two points? Where did she go? What did she do?” Lucy scowled at him, nudged Mark, and scowled some more when he ignored her and sensibly continued making notes. “And back it up with the CCTV. Who did she speak to? Who did she phone, who phoned her? Chase those phone and bank records.”
“No problem,” Mark said. Lucy sat red faced and seething with her arms across her chest.
Colt didn't need to waste time working her out, the body language between her and Mark told him all he needed to know. And he didn’t want it in the office. It was the unfathomable one on the other side of the table he was struggling with. India Kane’s face was blank.
Colt sat back in his chair, rubbing
his temples. “What time is the estate agent coming in?”
“Six,” Lee said.
“Ok. Lee you follow up the press conference suspects. Tom, the pathologist is conducting Martha's post mortem at midday, I want you there. Vicky, push Gray for the arson report; I want it here when we get back, and stay on Kathleen for info. In fact go to the PM with Tom; she said she was going to attend.”
He smiled when she acknowledged him with her usual salute and time checked his watch.
The Chief Constable was expecting him and Len in his office for an arse kicking in thirty minutes. The top brass were getting their knickers in a twist because they hadn't kicked any of the registered sex offenders’ doors in yet.
“Leave the rest to me,” Len said. “You've got a funeral to get to.”
Colt nodded, it couldn't have worked out better if he'd planned it.
Chapter 22
Colt cut the engine, staring at the path before them. Overhead dark thunder clouds clapped in fury at the loss of a good one taken too soon. Cars, tightly packed bumper to bumper, lined the route to the small stone chapel. There was a good turnout. Colt knew there would be, Sharon Cutler had been loved.
“Are you ready?” he murmured, reaching to the back seat and the large black umbrella resting there. She nodded. At least one of them was.
Colt and India stepped from the car and began the short walk to join the sombre stream of people entering the chapel. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said quietly, as they fell into step with the mourners. “Lacey reckons he might turn up.”
Once inside, Colt steered her to an unobtrusive spot on the end of the back row, positioning them well away from the main party of mourners. “This is a first for me,” India said, taking her seat. “Must be old hat for you.”
He smoothed his jacket and silently sat down beside her. He hadn't attended a funeral for nigh on twenty years. Much to the dismay of his own family, he'd stuck to the vow he'd made at that last graveside. Never again would a wooden box be the last memory he had of anyone he loved. This was hard enough and he’d never even met the woman alive. “It's been a week of firsts for you,” he murmured. “First press conference, first funeral. You're doing well; don't let it get to you.”