Dead Like Her

by Linda Regan

  Had she just made a huge mistake? Had he? Yesterday had been a strange day. Promotion for them both, following the news that a victim they had tried to protect during a horrific kidnap had died from knife wounds. And Banham had blamed himself for not getting to the victim in time. Alison punched the palm of her hand. Why did he think he could save a victim? He wasn’t God. The truth was he was an emotional mess. It was eleven years since the murder of his wife and baby; by now most people would have moved on. He couldn’t. He blamed himself for not being there to save them. The death of that female victim yesterday had let his personal ghosts in all over again.

  She really needed a cigarette, but she had given up a few months ago, the same time as she gave up men. She had broken one resolution, but she was determined to hang on to the other. She would work this excess energy off in the gym and then spend the rest of the day catching up on paperwork in the department.

  She started pacing again. She was going to be thirty-six in three weeks, yet right now she felt like a silly, insecure seventeen-year-old.

  She had wanted to go to bed with him, no doubt about that. She’d had one night stands, but Banham was different. She had wanted to touch him and hold him and make love with him so much and for so long, it almost hurt to think about it. A lump rose in the back of her throat as she recalled the tenderness: his hands exploring her body, and the gentle way that his tongue teased, then pleased.

  She squeezed her lips together to stop the emotion welling up. Was he thinking about her right now, she wondered. No; what a ridiculous notion. He was with his twin sister and her children at the zoo, trying to find out why Bobby wouldn’t go to school. Of course he wasn’t thinking about her.

  The sound of the gym door being unlocked made her swallowed down the turmoil inside her. She needed that work-out.

  As Alison pushed her bag into the changing room locker, Paul Banham was sitting on the end of his nephew’s bed. It was a quarter to six in the morning, and Bobby was sobbing into his pillow. Banham wanted nothing more than to give his nephew and niece a fun day out, but he needed to have a heart-to-heart with the little boy. Lottie, his twin sister, had told him about the crying bouts, the nightmares, the refusal to go to school; he even picked fights with his younger sister, Madeleine.

  Banham thought the problem was that Bobby was missing his father. Derek had gone off with a barmaid two years ago, and broken Lottie’s heart. Banham still wanted to punch him; every child needed a dad. Banham had lost his own chance of being a father when his ten-month-old baby Elizabeth was murdered; he was glad to step in when Derek left. But uncle wasn’t the same as dad.

  Bobby was nine, and normally a plucky little chap. Now he was sobbing into his pillow, and Banham felt helpless.

  Lottie was standing in the doorway. Banham gestured silently, asking her to leave them on their own.

  She left.

  “Mum’s gone, Bobby,” Banham said. “It’s just you and me now. What is it, mate? Are you missing your dad? It’s OK to tell me, you know.”

  The boy shook his head, but kept it buried in his pillow.

  “Well, something’s up. I can keep a secret. I won’t tell your mum.”

  “S’nothing.”

  “You know I’ll do all I can to help.”

  “S’nothing.”

  “OK.”

  Silence.

  “Do you still want to go to the zoo today?”

  A muffled “Yes.”

  “Good.” Another pause. Banham unfolded his arms and interlocked his fingers, then leaned his chin on his hand, a habit he had acquired interviewing witnesses. “Did you have another bad dream?” he asked very quietly.

  A beat passed. Banham waited. The boy’s face stayed buried in the pillow, but he nodded.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I was killed.”

  Banham ruffled the back of Bobby’s hair. “Well, you know that was only a dream. You’re here, safe in your bedroom, with me to protect you. OK?”

  “OK.”

  But Banham was convinced there was more. This was so out of character. Bobby rarely showed his feelings and almost never cried. Alison always said he took after his Uncle Paul.

  He pushed away the image of Alison which rose in his mind. He would call her later; this was Bobby’s time. He watched the boy rub his eyes and start to get up.

  “I’ll go and wake Madeleine,” he told him, “then I’ll help your mum with breakfast and we can make an early start.”

  “OK.”

  Banham stood up. Usually if Bobby had a problem he confided in his uncle, but he wasn’t saying anything this time. What was going on? Banham didn’t need to be a detective to work that out that it wasn’t just bad dreams.

  He stared at his nephew’s slight nine-year-old frame as Bobby opened his wardrobe to get his clothes out. Had he done something wrong and was afraid to own up? Banham so wanted to help him. He never had the chance to protect his own daughter from anything that scared her; he hadn’t even been there for her when she and her mother were attacked. But he was going to be there for these two children, come what may.

  “See you in the kitchen in five?”

  “OK.”

  Banham he paused outside the door to listen. Bobby had started sobbing again.

  Alison worked up a sweat on the rowing machine, then moved to the treadmill, set it a little faster than her usual pace, and started running.

  She was just getting into her stride, starting to sweat in earnest, when the gym door opened noisily and Colin Crowther sauntered in – newly promoted Detective Sergeant Crowther, she remembered. His dark curly hair was sticking out in all directions, and clearly hadn’t seen a comb this morning. His unaccountable and bizarre dress sense was always a talking point among the murder squad, but this morning he had excelled himself. He wore a t-shirt that read Blackpool Pier Wet T-Shirt Competition Runner-up in large shocking pink letters, and the baggy shorts that nearly reached his knees had an abstract pattern of green, gold and white. The t-shirt obviously belonged to whoever he’d spent the night with. His regular live-in lover forensic officer Penny Starr had too much style, thought Alison; and DC Isabelle Walsh, with whom he’d recently had a fling, was definitely not the wet t-shirt competition type.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or ignore him. What was he doing here at this time anyway if he’d spent the night with someone? There was no one else in the gym save one overweight man in the corner. It would have been difficult to pretend she hadn’t noticed him.

  Crowther looked surprised and a little embarrassed to see her, but he sauntered over and climbed on to the next running machine. “Morning, ma’am to be,” he winked.

  Though she wanted to be alone to think things over, she was always pleased to see Crowther. He always cheered her up – and anyway, he wasn’t easy to ignore, especially dressed like that.

  Crowther was an excellent detective. Born the son of an East End scrap metal dealer who dealt with local villains, he had grown up perceptive and sharp. He knew all the right people and wasn’t afraid to use those contacts to lead the team to an arrest.

  He had just been promoted to Alison’s old job, and she was glad he’d got it. Isabelle Walsh had applied too, but Colin deserved it more. Alison liked and respected him – though she couldn’t understand his phenomenal success with women. Perhaps he appealed to the mother in them; she couldn’t think what else it could be. He certainly wasn’t her type; she was two inches taller than him in her bare feet, and possessed not a single maternal instinct. She knew she wasn’t obviously sexy; the men in the squad saw her as one of the lads. She was always ready to jump into a fight with the most hardened criminals, and could hold her own every time. Physically she was tall and very slim, but her wide hips and a small bust put her out of the running for a wet t-shirt competition; and though she would never admit it, she would have liked to buy a bigger size bra than a 32A.

  The knots tightened in her stomach as last night flooded bac
k.

  Crowther clocked the speed she was running at. She stared straight ahead, but knew he was looking at her. Nothing slipped Crowther’s notice. He wasn’t nicknamed Know-all Col for nothing. He knew something was up with her. He set his own machine at the same fast pace and started running next to her. Every few seconds he threw her a questioning glance, waiting to see if she wanted to tell him what was the matter.

  She wondered if she could; he wasn’t a gossip, and under the macho front he was a decent bloke who cared about his friends. But she could hardly say, “Actually I slept with the boss last night and now I think he’s regretting it.”

  They carried on running, panting heavily and every now and again catching each other’s eye.

  Laughter suddenly burst out from Alison. She had to press the Pause button on her machine to stop herself choking, then bent forward trying to catch her breath and stop herself laughing at Crowther’s ridiculous get-up.

  Crowther pressed his own Pause button and looked at her. “What?”

  She picked up her towel and wiped the sweat pouring down her face and neck

  “I’m presuming that t-shirt isn’t yours.”

  He tapped the side of his nose.

  “It’s not Penny’s either,” she persisted. “She’s too classy.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  Penny was Alison’s friend too. As assistant head of Forensics she had helped them both out many times, working all hours for no extra pay to get a result that would lead to a conviction. She had probably helped, indirectly, to get their promotion.

  “I thought it was over with Isabelle?” she pushed.

  Crowther again raised his untidy eyebrows and grinned, but remained silent.

  “So who did you spend the night with?”

  “Who did you?”

  That took her by surprise. How did he know?

  His eyes didn’t leave hers. “It’s the guvnor, isn’t it?”

  Was there nothing he couldn’t suss? She blushed, and swiftly bent to pick up her bottle of water while her burning cheeks cooled.

  “About bloody time too...”

  Her head shot up. “It’s not like that. And I don’t want anyone to know.”

  An urgent bleep sounded from her phone, and Crowther’s warbled the theme from an old Clint Eastwood movie.

  “OK?” she said before she pressed the call answer button.

  “Of course.”

  Banham walked down the stairs and into the kitchen where Lottie, still in her dressing gown, was making porridge.

  He couldn’t bear her to be upset. They were twins; he hurt when she did, and he understood everything she had been through when her husband left her with the two children and no money. At first she had been too proud to allow her brother to help, but now she had let him in, and he wasn’t going to let them down. He was going to support them any way she’d let him.

  “I’ll talk to him again during the day,” he said, taking porridge bowls out of the cupboard. “Has he ever mentioned a class bully?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. He used to love school.”

  Banham rested a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be OK. I’ll sort it. I promise.”

  “Do you think he’s missing Derek?”

  Banham decided to lie. “No. He’s a Banham. He’s too intelligent for that.”

  The door opened and six-year-old Madeleine came in, dressed in her party dress and pink ballet shoes.

  Lottie looked at her in exasperation. “I said jeans and wellingtons. We’re going to the zoo.”

  “But Uncle Paul said we can go to tea with the chimps.” Madeleine appealed to her uncle with the blue eyes that Banham couldn’t resist. “It’s my tea-party dress, Uncle Paul.”

  “Yes, but...” He didn’t finish the sentence; his phone was trilling, and the look Lottie gave him meant she knew the day was spoiled before it had started.

  Chapter Three

  As Alison and Crowther turned into the road a sea of flashing blue lights signalled the location. An exceptionally tall WPC stood guarding the cordon; she immediately lifted the blue and white tape to allow their car access. Alison shivered with anticipation; clearly she had been recognised as the officer in charge of the case. Then she saw that the lanky woman constable was smiling so warmly at Crowther that she was almost alight. Crowther returned the smile with one of his winks. That said it all.

  Alison suppressed a smile. The woman’s feet were nearly as long as Crowther was high – but then the last thing newly promoted Sergeant Crowther noticed about a woman was her feet.

  She pulled up close to the alleyway that led to the open parkland. Crowther opened the door open and jumped out, and was comparing sightlines at the edge of the alleyway almost before she had turned the ignition off. He had thankfully changed his clothes and now sported a pair of ill-fitting jeans and a brown anorak with the sleeves rolled up so many times it looked like a Cossack hat on each skinny wrist. Alison was just grateful he wasn’t out on the first murder scene since their promotion with WET T-SHIRT COMPETITION written across his chest in fuchsia pink lettering.

  “A lot of these houses have a clear view over the alley and park land,” Crowther shouted. “Someone just might have seen or heard something.”

  He called a uniformed sergeant over, to order an immediate door-to-door.

  Alison had noticed Banham’s car. “Guvnor’s already here,” she shouted to Crowther.

  She heard him instructing the uniformed sergeant to get the alleyway cordoned off as she walked into the park. Good old Col, always on the ball.

  A crowd of officers dressed head to toe in bluebell-coloured plastic overalls, plastic shoes and white mouth masks milled around the pond on the opposite side of the wasteland. Banham was there, along with dozen or so of the forensic team, including Crowther’s girlfriend Penny Starr and the head of Forensics, Max Pettifer. Some were on hands and knees, examining the area minutely.

  She hovered, studying her surroundings. There was a fence around the perimeter of the park, and another padlocked entrance.

  Crowther caught her up. “Pathetic Pettifer is here,” she told him.

  Pathetic Pettifer was Banham’s pet name for Max Pettifer. Max was an excellent forensic investigator, but he got by making tasteless jokes, often at the expense of the victim. Mostly people were too busy doing their jobs to take any notice – but Paul Banham refused to put up with his crass remarks. Banham was ultra-sensitive around female corpses. It was common knowledge that eleven years ago he had come home and found his wife brutally murdered, her body unrecognisable and her severed arm still around their baby daughter, also unrecognisable from the attack on her tiny face.

  So when Banham vomited if the victim was a baby or a blonde female, everyone sympathised and no one commented. No one except Max Pettifer.

  Crowther was now examining the sightlines from the cluster of bushes that lined the edge of the fence by the alleyway.

  “She had to enter from the alleyway,” Alison told him. “The rest of the park is locked at night.”

  Crowther bent down and picked up a lipstick rolling free on the path, its chrome container unscratched and free from rust. “This was dropped recently,” he said, swivelling it open to reveal a bright red stick of colour.

  “Could be anyone’s,” Alison shrugged.

  He nodded his agreement. “Could be hers,” he said, dropping it into an evidence bag.

  Alison pulled mauve forensic gloves from her pocket and joined Crowther, squatting to peer under the bushes lining the pathway. He pushed his gloved fingers through the damp, cold foliage and pulled out a mess of fast food containers, mouldering food, rusting beer cans and cigarette packets, all crawling with insects.

  Alison came across a black and white rubber football and threw it out into the parkland in case a football-mad youngster, like Banham’s nephew, was desperately searching for it.

  Crowther was holding up his next find – a small, red satin ha
ndbag.

  “It’s a known muggers’ dumping ground,” she said handing him another evidence bag to wrap it in. “But you’re right. You never know.”

  The clasp was loose. He emptied out the contents: Tampax, keys, a purse containing money and credit cards and a name and address. “Not a mugging,” he said. “Sadie Morgan, 3 Fox Meadow.” A frown creased his forehead; he pushed a hand into the bottom of the bag. and pulled out a bullet.

  “Definitely not a mugging.” Alison passed him yet another evidence bag. “Better look for a gun.”

  Banham was making his way over to them. He looked ashen. As DCl he wouldn’t have to attend all murder scenes, she thought; a good thing too.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Welcome to your first murder enquiry, Detective Inspector Grainger. You too, Sergeant Crowther. Max thinks the victim was killed over there.” He pointed to the path. “Then dragged along the footpath, and thrown in the pond. She was dead before she hit the water.”

  Crowther preened. “We may have her identity, guv.” He handed the evidence bag containing the red handbag to Banham. “We think this could be hers. It’s not been here long, no rust or scratching, material hasn’t seen much weathering.” He paused. “And it had a bullet in it.”

  “Penny’s just found a gun over there.” Banham pointed to the ground near the pathway. “See if they’re a match.”

  Penny Starr was standing at the edge of the pond wearing long waders over her forensic suit. Crowther headed towards her.

  “We’re hoping there might be some light sleepers out there,” Alison said. “Crowther’s ordered an in-depth house-to-house on the houses that overlook the park.”

  Banham nodded. “Good.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Two support officers at the end of their night shift; they’re both in shock.”

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  “No, I left that for you. It’s your case – Detective Inspector Grainger.”

  “You organised forensics, though.” The words came out a little too sharply.