by Linda Regan
“Can we come in?” she asked.
Terry stepped back and pulled the door wider. “Of course.”
They walked down the passageway, carpeted in stained floral green. The club smelt of stale beer and staler fried food, and was littered with dirty glasses, used paper plates and the remnants of party streamers.
“Cleaner not turned up?” Crowther said, walking through into the club.
Terry smelt of cheap perfume, or more likely hairspray. He wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m doing it today,” he said.
“How’s your face?” Alison asked.
“Fine,” he said, covering the swollen cheek with his hand. His voice sounded cracked, like a teenage boy’s.
“We’re trying to piece together Sadie’s last moments,” Crowther said. “You’re on CCTV with her, outside the club on Friday night. What was that about?”
He nibbled his thumbnail nervously. “She was wearing one of our earrings when she left, and I chased after her to get it back. Those are genuine nineteen fifties replicas. They’re difficult to get hold of and they cost a fortune.”
“Was she drunk?”
Terry paused. “No. A little tired.” He rubbed his clammy fingers on his apron.
“Did she ever talk to you about her love life? Alison asked.
“It was complicated.”
“Meaning?” Crowther said flatly.
Terry’s eyes flicked around the room. The CCTV was running. And his face was proof that Eddie knocked him about.
“Is Eddie Chang around? Crowther asked.
“He doesn’t come in on Sunday.” Terry sounded apprehensive. “It’s just me and Johnny; we’re doing the clearing up.”
“Where is he?” Alison asked.
“He’s at home. I can give you the address...”
“We’ve got it,” Crowther said sharply.
“When you followed Sadie out, did you see anyone hanging around?” Alison asked.
“I wasn’t looking,” he said quickly. “I just ran out to get the earring. I was busy, fitting a couple of new Marilyn impersonators.”
Alison looked around the tawdry room. “You said Johnny was here this morning. Where is he?”
Terry’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “He’s in the cottage at the back. I’ll give him a call.”
“No worries,” Crowther said, heading towards the back exit to the courtyard. “We know where it is. We’ll give him a knock.”
A CCTV camera whirred as they walked through the courtyard. “This is Chang’s knocking shop,” Crowther said, careful to keep his voice low.
The cottage door was already open; Terry had warned Johnny Gladman they were there. Johnny’s long Rastafarian plaits were twisted into an elastic band at the nape of his neck, and he needed a shave. He wore grubby, grey, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a vest, and his feet were bare. Crowther looked him up and down.
“You sleep late, Mr Gladman. It’s nearly lunchtime.”
“Can we come in?” Alison asked evenly. “We’ve got a few more questions about Sadie Morgan.”
Johnny hovered on the threshold.
“We can do it here, or down the station,” she pushed.
Johnny stepped back to allow them in.
Obviously no illegal immigrant girls there at the moment, Alison thought. But maybe they could find a clue that they were expected.
Banham loved Sundays like this: days when he had time to buy his twin sister and nephew and niece lunch at a family pub.
They sat around the large wooden table; the plates crowded each other, and had one thing in common: large helpings of chips. Alison constantly nagged Banham about his unhealthy eating habits, and he often felt like a naughty schoolboy when she caught him chewing a chocolate bar. She never put enough sugar in his coffee either; he liked two heaped spoonfuls, and hers only added up to half a one. He tucked into a large cheese-burger and chips, relishing every mouthful.
Madeleine sat beside him, tomato ketchup all round her mouth, on her fingers and even in her long pale hair. Bobby had the situation under control. His chips were generously spread with brown sauce, which he sucked from the potato before he ate each one. Banham adored the children. He often looked at Madeleine and wondered what his own daughter would have been like, had she lived. She would have been like a big sister to Madeleine, and equally beautiful.
Now he was the only father figure Bobby and Madeleine had. And he needed to find out what was upsetting Bobby.
Lottie was drinking a very large glass of wine, and picking at fish and chips.
“Are you eating fish ’cause it gives you brains?” Madeleine asked her mother, her small mouth full of chips and tomato sauce.
Lottie laughed. “Fish is good for lots of things. It makes you grow big and strong.” She held a forkful in front of the child’s mouth. “Here, it’ll help you fight the bad fairies.”
Madeleine pushed the fork towards her brother. “You have it, Bobby. It’ll help you fight the bullies at school.”
“What bullies?” Banham and Lottie asked with one voice. They exchanged a glance; twin telepathy again.
What bullies?” Banham repeated, more urgently this time.
Bobby said nothing.
“OK,” Banham said cautiously. “You can tell me after you’ve had a chocolate ice-cream sundae.” He took care not to catch Lottie’s eye.
Bobby turned away.
“It’s the big boys,” Madeleine said importantly. “Not the ones in Bobby’s class. Some big boys have got knives and guns. They hurt Felix Greene and they’ll hurt Bobby too.”
Banham slipped his arm around her. “Not on my watch, they won’t.”
Lottie looked as surprised as Banham felt.
He knew all about Felix Greene. The lad had been stabbed in the road outside school; thanks to a speedy ambulance service, he had survived a deep knife wound an inch from his heart. No one had come forward with evidence, and he had claimed he didn’t see his attacker.
Banham picked up a paper serviette and gently wiped the sauce from Maddie’s face. “Who’s got knives and guns?” he asked, applying the serviette to her hands.
Bobby threw his fork on the table. “I can look out for myself,” he said defiantly. “I’m not scared of knives.” A beat passed, then he added quietly, “But the guns are a bit scary.”
Banham breathed hard, pushing away the memory flash of the blood-splattered nursery. “After we’ve had ice-cream,” he said quietly, “why don’t we kick a football about for a while, and you can tell me about it.”
Bobby’s hands flew in the air. “I ain’t splitting on no one. I’ve talked more than enough all ready.”
Banham and Lottie exchanged a look. The boy was clearly terrified.
“Do you live alone?” Crowther asked Johnny Gladman.
Alison opened the door to another room and peered inside. She glanced over her shoulder; Johnny was watching her nervously.
“No.” He hesitated. “My brother lives with me. He’s out this morning.”
“You were one of the last people to see Sadie Morgan alive,” Alison said. “You’re on CCTV outside the club. You put something in her hand. Drugs, was it?
His “Yes” was almost inaudible.
“So what did you do then? Follow her? Kill her?” Crowther said roughly.
Johhny looked anguished. “No! I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“In love with her, were you?” Alison asked.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“So what was it like?”
“She was a sweet girl. But I am not allowed to talk to the Marilyn girls.”
“You’re on CCTV talking to her.”
“I only asked her if she was OK.”
“What drugs did you give her?” Crowther asked.
“Just... just a little grass.”
He was lying.
“You could have followed her,” Crowther goaded. “The tape shows you going back into the club, but who’s to say you didn’t go straig
ht out the back door, into the courtyard and through the gate into the alley? You’d have been at the end of the road before she was.”
Johnny looked terrified. How on earth did he hold down the job of club doorman, Alison wondered. He was the least menacing bouncer she’d ever seen.
“This is all my fault,” Millie said. Andrew was signing for his possessions at the custody desk.
“Tell that to DI Grainger and Sergeant Crowther.”
“I already have. But I didn’t know you were in the club. I thought you were waiting for me outside.”
“You said you wouldn’t be long, but you were ages. I got cold and went inside.”
“Just as well, as it happens, or you would have been a suspect. I’m really sorry about all this – I feel awful. You’ve been a really good friend.”
Andrew made no reply, and they set off for the car park in silence.
“Where’s your car?” Andrew asked.
“Colin drove me in this morning.”
“Stay out with him last night, did you?”
“You know I’m seeing him.”
Andrew shrugged. “I haven’t got my car either. I was arrested last night, remember. Looks like it’s the bus.”
“We have to go to Lily’s. We’re on liaison there.”
“I really need a shower after that cell. Look, let’s get a bus to my place and I’ll drive us to Lily’s.”
Millie shook her head. “Better not. We have to be there by six. You go, and I’ll fetch my car and pick you up. Be ready – I don’t want to get into any more trouble for being late.”
***
Lily was staying home, where she felt safe. Hyacinth, her Siamese cat, was playing up; she hadn’t eaten her breakfast, and hadn’t come back since Lily let her out into the communal gardens earlier that day. The day was drawing in and she decided to go and call her. It was safe out there; there was CCTV.
She pulled her cardigan around her and left the door on the latch. “Hyacinth,” she called.
But there was no sign. Siamese cats were notoriously clever; this one knew Lily was leaving her with a neighbour, and clearly wasn’t pleased. It was a game Lily knew well.
After about ten minutes she gave up. The cat would reappear when she was hungry. She closed the front door behind her and made her way up the stairs to her own flat.
She heard a light rustling noise as she walked into the kitchen.
The cat was on the window sill. Lily picked up the saucer of prawns and pulled the curtain back to tempt her to come in.
But the sill was deserted.
She stood still and listened. The noise was coming from the other room. Clever cat, she’d sneaked in through the front door while Lily was out in the garden.
She rattled the tray of prawns and called again. In the hallway she stopped in her tracks; the front door was wide open, and she was positive she had released the latch when she came in. She closed it quickly and hurried back into the kitchen.
The shadow came from nowhere. Then the pillow was over her face and she was fighting for breath. At first there was no pain, just a desperate need for air. She tried to fight to free herself, but the arms holding hers were stronger. She kicked back, but her garden wellingtons made no impression. She panicked as the pain entered her head like a screwdriver. She went wild; someone was yelling, and she couldn’t tell if it was her own voice or her imagination. Her arms and legs flailed out as she realised she was fighting for her life. Her brain screamed for oxygen, and the pillow pressed tighter; her nose was being sucked into her face, and she tasted vomit in her throat. Even when her legs buckled and her body slumped, she willed herself to keep fighting.
Then everything went into slow motion. The knife-like pain seemed to retreat and the vomit began to choke her. She heard a laugh in the distance, and she felt as if she was floating; white stars danced in the blackness. They grew smaller and smaller and smaller, until there was nothing but black.
Chapter Nine
Mrs Turnbull wore a flowery dress, a flowerier apron and thick grey tights with sheepskin slippers. She was stout and timid, and wiped the corners of her eyes with the edge of her apron as she told Alison how she came to find Lily’s body.
She had come out of her flat when she heard Hyacinth mewing to be let in. Lily’s door was shut; she knocked for several minutes, and when Lily didn’t answer she used the spare keys Lily left with her to allow the desperate cat into the house. She followed it in to check if Lily had left food – and that was when she saw the body, with a note lying by her side.
Mrs Turnbull didn’t think she had touched anything. She had staggered back and leaned against the wall, taking some deep breaths before dialling 999. Then the two PCSOs had turned up.
Alison felt dreadful. A question buzzed around her head: should she have sent a liaison officer around sooner, and not relied on a patrol car to keep regular checks?
She went over everything in her mind. Lily had assured Millie that she was staying home with the doors locked, that she had a friendly neighbour, and if she heard or saw anybody strange she would dial 999 immediately. According to Isabelle she had only seen the stalker outside the rehearsal room – never near her home.
Alison simply hadn’t believed the stalker had any connection to Sadie Morgan’s murder. The knife and drugs found in her flat and the hand-gun in her bag led them straight to Eddie Chang. And Lily had only told Millie that she thought someone was following her. But now, looking down at this woman, a Marilyn Monroe impersonator like Sadie, she had to ask herself if she could have stopped another murder.
Banham was standing at the top of the stairway as Alison came out of the flat.
“Millie Payne and Andrew Fisher turned up about five minutes after the 999 call,” she told him. “Trouble seems to follow them around.”
Banham put a steadying hand on Alison’s arm. “You couldn’t have predicted this,” he assured her. “You did what was right, followed up on what we had.”
“I should have taken what she said more seriously, had someone round here earlier.”
He squeezed her arm, then turned to study the surroundings. “Are there any other exits from here?”
“There’s only the front door. The killer had to come in that way. There’s no CCTV camera inside the building either, but there is one in the grounds, and another in the underground car park.”
Forensic officers were everywhere, in the flat, up the stairway, on all fours at the main entrance to the block, all dressed head to foot in blue plastic suits.
“This note was left with the body.” Alison handed Banham a sheet of paper in a transparent evidence bag. The words Your Turn Now were handwritten in blue biro. “Millie Payne took it from Mrs Turnbull. So both their prints will be on it. Penny has a handwriting expert she can call on – we may have a lead there.”
Banham hovered uncertainly.
“You don’t have to go in,” Alison said quietly. “But it’s all right – she was suffocated.” She paused. “And the poker from the fireplace has been pushed up her anus.”
His eyes closed and he clenched his teeth, swallowing hard as Max Pettifer walked out through Lily’s front door.
“I thought I saw your car pull up,” he said, grinning at Banham’s obvious discomfort. “Are you going to stay out there all day, or are you coming in to do your job? Not too much in the way of gore, so hopefully you’ll keep your dinner down.”
“Dinner? What dinner? I should be so lucky. I expect you had plenty of time to finish yours.”
Alison closed her eyes. Why did he have to rise to the bait? They were like children. She looked at Max with ice in her gaze. “We’ve got work to do.” She walked doggedly into the flat. Banham followed.
Lily lay face down, arms straight and body heaped on the rug by the fire. Her rear was angled upward, and a thin poker from an ornamental set by the gas fire protruded from her back passage.
Banham stood rooted to the spot. “Was she alive or dead when that happened?
” he asked Max.
“Dead, I’d say. There’s little blood.”
Alison moved in closer. “What are those marks on her wrist?”
“Where she was held,” Max told her. “There’s a boot mark on the back of her leg. We might be able to find a match for that.”
“Do you think it’s the same killer?”
“Hard to say.” Max’s head bobbed from side to side. “There are similarities. He pointed with a gloved hand to a faint bluish-black tinge around her mouth. “Your pond victim had that colour too. It’s bruising from pressure on the area. I’d say it’s likely they were both suffocated, with a pillow, perhaps.”
“Same size hand?” Banham asked.
Max shook his head. “Couldn’t say at the moment.”
“How soon can we get your report?” Banham asked him.
“Same as usual. When it’s done.”
The two PCSOs were sitting on stools in the neighbour’s kitchen. “Trouble seems to follow you around,” Alison repeated.
Millie was dry-eyed but shaking. Andrew held her hand.
“What time did you get here?” Banham asked them.
“Mrs Turnbull said she’d just called 999.” Millie looked at Alison. “Do you think someone is... targeting Monroe impersonators?”
“What makes you say that?” Banham asked her.
“Well, two of them... I just thought...”
“Don’t,” Alison said crisply. “Leave the thinking to us. Where did you find the note?”
“Mrs Turnbull found it. I told her not to touch anything, that the police would want her not to go on to the crime scene. She said she’d found the note next to Lily, and she handed it to me.”
Alison sighed. “And you took it.”
Millie nodded. “I had to.”
Alison decided not to ask why.
Andrew was silent and white-faced; his pink pimples stood out. Millie on the other hand had calmed down, and spoke fluently: quite different from the previous murder scene.
“You both know the procedure,” Alison said briskly. “We need your clothes. Get into forensic suits, then straight back to the station to give full written statements.”