by Linda Regan
Dead Like Her
Linda Regan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the author:
www.accentpress.co.uk
Chapter One
Sadie Morgan could have been Marilyn Monroe. The blood-red dress was an exact replica of an iconic one. It clung to Sadie’s curvy figure and opened from her ankle all the way up her long shapely legs to the top of her thigh, allowing a glimpse of black seamed stockings, a hint of thigh and a cheeky red marabou garter to peep through. She stood with her back to the audience, wiggling her hips in time with the CD track of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend. Then she walked up the steep stairs.
She reached the top, flicked the red marabou boa over her shoulder and turned her head, resting her chin on her shoulder and shaping her mouth into Marilyn’s famous sultry pout before stretching her shiny scarlet lips into an innocent smile.
She was the best Marilyn Monroe impersonator this tribute club had.
The room span. She momentarily lost concentration, but carried on, bobbing her bottom in time with the music and stretching her arm, pointing a gloved index finger to the dazzling rings on her other hand. Normally in this part of the routine the audience were going wild, but tonight they felt distant; she heard only murmurs, and now she was struggling to remember the words.
She had worked here at Doubles for a year, earning almost as much for her three spots a week as she did as a full-time staff nurse at the local hospital. She always mimed to this song – and suddenly she couldn’t remember the words. Something was wrong. It felt like a bad dream.
The room span again and she had to grab the banister to stay upright. It took all her energy to carry on.
She’d only had the usual single shot of whisky before her performance, and it never affected her. What was happening?
She looked out into the audience. Eddie Chang stood in his usual place, arms folded, diamond signet ring glistening on his little finger. He wore a made-to-measure purple suit with matching lining, with a lilac silk tie and a handkerchief in his top pocket. He was easy to spot: his hair was black on top and completely grey underneath, styled and lacquered so not one hair was out of place. He always watched the Marilyns – not just because he owned the tribute club, but because he was obsessed with the Hollywood goddess. He demanded perfection: the dress and wig had to be exact replicas of the ones the star had worn, the walk identical, the infamous pout rehearsed endlessly. Mr Chang had to be satisfied the impersonator could pass for Marilyn Monroe.
His face blurred, then cleared. Was he smiling at her – or scowling?
She realised she had missed her cue. She should have started to walk down the stairs at this point in the song – and he noticed everything. He was blurred again, but she could still see him watching her. So was Johnny Gladman, doorman and jack of all trades for the club, standing next to a life-size cardboard cut-out of Marilyn in that famous white dress, pushing the pleated skirt down, giggling as gusts of wind threatened to reveal her knickers. Johnny’s dark-skinned hand covered his mouth, a sure sign she was messing up.
She didn’t want to lose her reputation as the best of the many Marilyns working in this club. Being the top impersonator meant not waiting on tables or serving drinks, and she earned more money, which she desperately needed to finish paying her way out of her marriage and keep her flat. She enjoyed the attention and compliments too; she’d never experienced either in her six-year marriage.
Had someone spiked her drink? She was a nurse, so she knew the signs. Was it possible Eddie Chang had found out what she was planning?
Suddenly she was frightened.
Someone laughed. Were they laughing at her? Eddie had turned his back on her; his attention was now on the Marilyn Monroe film running silently on a screen in the other side of the club. That was a very bad sign.
The walls were covered in pictures of Marilyn, from every production, at every age, at every stage of her career. Other celebrity impersonators worked here on other nights, but Eddie Chang was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe.
She clung to the banister miming, “We all lose our charms in the end.” She glanced over to her friend Johnny Gladman again. His hand was still covering his mouth; she wasn’t imagining it, she really was out of time with the music. Something was wrong.
She carried on as best she could.
She saw Terry King. Terry never ventured out of the dressing room. He said he was too busy combing wigs or sewing dresses to watch the show, yet here he was in front of the stage. And it was definitely Terry. He wasn’t tall, but he was very broad in the shoulders, and still looked masculine even dressed as a woman. Everyone knew he wanted to be a Marilyn impersonator, and Eddie found it laughable.
Had Eddie called him because something was going on?
She reached the bottom of the stairs just after the music ended, and didn’t wait for the smattering of applause; she hurried to the dressing room as quickly as her unsteady legs would allow. She needed to get out of the club.
Detective Inspector Alison Grainger woke to tangled limbs and the aroma of sex. Sleep had been a long time coming for her but when she had finally, briefly, dropped off she’d dreamed of Paul Banham, and the fulfilment of years of yearning.
Now she felt the hair on his legs sliding from under her, and the smell of his naked body untangling itself from their embrace. As he paused to kiss her tenderly on the forehead, his tummy touched hers and his spent penis gently brushed against her thigh.
He climbed over her and headed for the shower, and she lay staring at the side of the bed where he’d slept, listening as he washed last night’s lovemaking from his body. The clock’s luminous hands pointed to five-thirty. He hadn’t said a word as he slid from her bed. What was she supposed to gather from that? She knew he had arranged to take his nephew to the zoo today, and try to talk to him about his refusal to go to school; and she knew he had promised to get there before the boy got up. Paul Banham would never let his twin sister or her children down. Nor did Alison want him to. But it was five-thirty in the morning, and he was leaving her bed.
She swallowed down the musky, morning taste in her mouth. Was he regretting it? They’d agreed so many times that mixing work and pleasure wasn’t on. And they did still have to work together, even though they had both climbed to the next rung of the ladder. She was now detective inspector in the murder division, and he was DCI; he would still be her immediate senior officer. She would be heading up the next murder case, but he’d be with her, guiding her and giving her confidence before he left her on her own to run the next one and the many that would surely follow.
Frustration and anger welled up. He clearly wasn’t keen to stay in bed with her; was he going to pretend it never happened? After seven years working closely with him she still had no idea what was going on in his head. The unsolved murder of his young wife and ten-month-old baby all those years ago had affected him very deeply – but was it going to haunt him to his grave? It wasn’t that she didn’t sympathise and care, but if he didn’t feel ready to move on after nearly eleven years, why had he made love to her?
Perhaps it was just sex – just one of those things. It wasn’t planned; they hadn’t agreed to go out o
n a date. They were just celebrating their promotion, a spur of the moment thing. But to Alison it felt like they had made love. He was tender, considerate and caring, and to her that didn’t seem like a one-night stand.
Yesterday had been a good and bad day. A victim in their last case, a pretty actress who had reminded Banham of his murdered wife, had died after a month in a coma. It had hit Banham very hard; he still took things personally after eleven years in CID. He believed if he’d got there sooner he might have saved her. Alison knew they had done everything in their power. She hoped she wasn’t callous, but deaths went with the job.
The news of their promotion had come through a few hours later, and they decided it would be a good idea to go out and get slaughtered. It hadn’t occurred to her it might end up like this. Deep down she’d wanted it to happen for years, and now it had she was half regretting it. Had he used Alison for comfort, to ease the guilt about the actress who reminded him of his wife? Or had he too wanted it to happen? He’d had enough chances, and never taken them up in the past.
Most likely it was just a spur of the moment thing: they would never talk about it again, and she would be expected to pretend it hadn’t happened. She combed her fingers through the tangled mane of mouse-coloured hair he called her squirrel’s tail. He said the dark flecks in her greyish-green eyes reminded him of a cross squirrel too. She wasn’t sure if he meant it as a compliment – but that was one of the things that she found endearing about him; a smooth-talking guy he was not.
She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling sober and confused. This wasn’t going to be easy, whichever way it went.
The sound of the shower continued. She thought about joining him, but he might not welcome that. She sat up and hugged her knees. Yesterday her promotion to DI had fuelled her with ambition; now she felt empty. She decided to hit the gym as soon as it opened, to work her frustration out. The sound of the water running over him was really beginning to upset her.
Eddie Chang kept his back to Sadie as she hurried unsteadily past him. One of the other Marilyn girls looked concerned; another, the cocktail waitress, turned away. Johnny Gladman watched her every move, and helped her get through the crowded club to the dressing room.
She downed a glass of water and was struggling to get the wig off as Terry King followed her in. Terry nagged the girls about hanging their clothes up but no one took any notice. It was common knowledge that his ambition to be a Marilyn impersonator had come to nothing; he had to make do with maintaining their costumes. He was Chang’s other half, and Sadie knew he reported back on everything he heard in the girls’ changing room. At the best of times she avoided saying much in his presence; right now he was the last person she wanted to see.
She changed as fast as she could, struggling hard to focus and stay upright. Hairpins scattered as she tugged to free them from her wig.
“Are you all right, love?” Terry sounded concerned, but Sadie wasn’t fooled.
“Just tired.” The words came out in a slur.
“Do you want some more water?” Terry bent to pick up Sadie’s discarded clothes. Normally he shouted at anyone who dropped their costume carelessly, and that unnerved Sadie more.
She struggled into her jeans and thick jumper. “No, I’m going. I’ll see you next Tuesday.” She pushed her arms into her black padded anorak, zipping it up as she made for the exit.
Johnny was waiting for her outside, his concern evident. He handed her an envelope and she struggled to push the contents into her red clasp bag. She wondered whether to wait for the night bus or walk down the hill. She often walked. It wasn’t far, and the night air would help to clear her spinning head. If this was a bug, she could shake it off. If someone had spiked her drink it would be better to walk it out of her system. As she stood pondering the decision, Terry King came out of the club reminding her she was still wearing one of the long diamante earrings; he reached out and snatched it from her ear. That decided her; she wanted to get away. A few seconds earlier and he would have caught her talking to Johnny. She set off down the street.
She didn’t see the parked car less than a hundred yards away, its light off, its occupant watching her.
Her stiletto heels clacked down the deserted street; they were uncomfortable, and she began to regret having worn them. Had someone slipped something in her drink? She hoped no one had noticed she had messed up tonight; Eddie Chang was fastidious and would sack a Marilyn for the slightest mistake. He hadn’t said anything. Was it possible someone had told him what she was up to? That thought really frightened her. But, she reasoned, Eddie wouldn’t mess up her act; he would just shoot her. Besides, there was no way he could know. Still, best not to take the chance. Tomorrow she would deliver.
She crossed the street, unaware that she was zigzagging, or that she was being watched.
She paused briefly at the end of the road. There was a short cut; halfway down the hill she could turn into the alleyway that led to the park, then walk past the duck pond and cut across the field. She loved that walk, watching the night change into morning. The dew in the air always felt fresh after a night of inhaling fumes from the smoke machine at the club. She often finished work just as the birds began their breakfast chorus. It was too early for that tonight.
The field was quicker than the road. She turned to check no one was around, and entered the unlit alleyway, away from the safety of the CCTV cameras. She was totally unaware that someone else entered too, very quietly and only seconds after her.
The cry of an animal in the distance unnerved her and she stopped to listen.
The follower stopped too.
As she turned her head listening, the figure quietly stepped sideways into the shadow of the bushes.
The branches over the fence rustled a little. Sadie told herself the noise was just a hungry fox or a randy cat, but she felt for the reassuring shape of the hand-gun in her red satin handbag. She reached the other end of the alley and turned to look back. Nothing. She stepped out and crossed the road toward the open field, where the only light came from the stars. Nearly home. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed the fresh smell of dew.
Something touched her neck, and her heart shot into her mouth. She instinctively turned her head toward it – then it was over her face, pressing against her, sucking her breath away.
She kicked out wildly and scrabbled at whatever was covering her face. She touched what felt like an arm, but the increasing pain and desperate need to breathe took all her attention. Her leg kicked out instinctively and she lost her balance, then a sharp kick behind her other knee brought her down, tearing and ripping at whatever was over her face.
She hit out with feet and fists, then... the gun! Could she get the gun? Did she still have the bag on her wrist? She fumbled for it, but something hard hit her hand and her head exploded and white stars danced in front of her.
She felt and heard the thud as her knees hit the ground, and a shot of adrenalin gripped her. Her fists flew and her legs kicked out, but they missed their target like a marionette with an inexperienced handler.
Pain shot through the top of her head like an exploding pressure cooker. Her body felt as light as a rag doll, and time stood still. Coloured stars danced around her brain and disappeared into blackness.
She no longer needed to breathe.
After a quick check, her assailant pulled the pillow away. The handbag flew through the air and landed a good hundred yards down the field, scattering Tampax, cosmetics, and the hand-gun and bullets.
The attacker turned to leave the scene, but had second thoughts and walked back to the slumped body, lifted it by the legs and dragged it the few yards to the pond, over uneven paving which scraped away the skin on her face.
The corpse dropped almost soundlessly into the filthy slime-ridden water, but the squawks from indignant ducks panicked the killer: what if someone in one of the neighbouring houses awoke and looked out the window?
The water was shallow, and Sadie’s face
slowly sank beneath it. Her bleached-blonde hair darkened as slime, reeds and water crept over her broken face and finally covered her sightless eyes until just the tip of her nose remained above the surface.
Good, thought the killer, staring through the black night into the pond; that was a job well done. Then suddenly her face bobbed above the surface. For an instant it was as if she had come back to life, but it was the movement of the water as the inquisitive ducks swam in to see what had invaded their home.
The face was dirty, stinking and very dead, and the job finished.
The real Marilyn had died in her bed and looked beautiful.
Chapter Two
It was just before six a m, and Alison was pacing up and down outside the gym waiting for it to open. Last night’s events were whirring around her head and the craving for a cigarette was making her edgy. The running machine always quelled the nicotine craving, and she could use the time to think through what had happened and how best to deal with the consequences.
They’d both had a fair amount to drink though neither of them was completely out of it. They’d shared a taxi, and he came back to her flat as he had on many occasions; it wasn’t unusual for him to crash at her place. She’d offered him the sofa – then as she handed him a spare duvet and watched him snuggle into the sofa, she had surprised herself by inviting him to share her bed, mumbling feebly that he looked neither warm nor comfortable. Even more surprisingly, he had accepted.
He had slept in her bed before – literally fallen asleep on it, after a long day. So what was different last night? Was it the alcohol? And was he now regretting it? She had believed it was the start of something, but at five-thirty – five-thirty – he got up, showered and dressed, then made her tea and cornflakes. When she refused them he had kissed her on the forehead, picked up his keys and said he’d call her later. But he always called her later; she was his second in command! Of course he would call – but would he mention the fact that they’d had sex?
She pulled her fur-hooded anorak close around her neck against the early morning dampness. It was early March and not yet six o’clock – still dark, and very cold.