by Linda Regan
Banham walked to the far side of the playing field before looking back. The older boy had joined his own line, and was joshing with some boys his own age. Banham told himself he had to let Bobby stand on his own two feet.
He still waited until the class lines had filed into the building before heading off to the car.
Isabelle Walsh was wading through the mounds of reports on her desk. Crowther sat at the desk in front of her, getting an update on the forensic situation from Penny for the morning meeting, and taking the opportunity to sweet-talk his girlfriend. It was really getting to Isabelle.
What was it about Crowther that women found so bloody irresistible? His mass of untidy dark brown curls reminded her of Denis the Menace, and his home-knitted striped child’s jumper had probably shrunk in the wash. His clothes never fitted properly, he didn’t own a comb, yet all she could think about was getting back into bed with him.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Men fell for her, not the other way round. She was gorgeous, with large blue eyes and shiny shoulder length hair that was a natural dark brown. Today it was pinned up in a French plait with the sides curling down over her face. She was dressed simply, in body-hugging jeans and a clingy, lemon roll-neck jumper. Heads turned wherever she went – yet this tiny toerag at the desk in front of her had ditched her, and she had to sit here rifling through reports on what time people in the houses around the park went to bed while he sat in front of her muttering sweet nothings to his current woman, who he was now two-timing with PCSO Millie Payne.
The only good thing about the day was that Alison had made a large pot of really good coffee and told them all to help themselves. As she poured herself a cup she glanced at Crowther. His hand was in the air, waving at her. This was unbelievable: he actually expected her to bring a cup for him too. And while he was on the phone to Penny!
Rise above it, she told herself. She poured another cup and carried it carefully to his desk. If only he knew how she had to fight the urge to pour it over his head. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and winked at her. “Thanks, babe,” he said.
Did he have a nerve or what?
It was a couple more minutes before he put the phone down. “Are you going to tell me the news before the meeting?” she asked.
“Ballistics have confirmed the bullet found in Sadie’s bag matches the gun found in the park, the Astra Cadix.”
“Question is what was Sadie doing with it?” Isabelle said.
“There are prints on it, but it hadn’t been fired recently.”
Alison came out of her office and stood in front of the pictures of the dead girls. The room fell quiet.
“OK, what’s new?”
“Penny just rang,” Crowther said. “The only DNA they picked up at the Sadie Morgan crime scene belongs to the PCSOs,”
“No particles of Sadie’s skin on the footpath?”
He shook his head. “There’s a footprint which matches Millie Payne’s shoes.” “Payne by name, pain by nature,” Isabelle scoffed.
“So we’re no further forward,” Alison said.
“Perhaps she had a stalker too,” Isabelle suggested. “She might have borrowed the gun for protection.”
Alison nodded. “I think we have to assume the two murders are linked. I suppose that’s progress of a kind.”
Monday was always a busy day for Stars and Types, the celebrity lookalikes agency, but today they were especially stretched. Marilyn Monroe lookalikes seemed to be in big demand. Marilyns always made money, in films or television commercials. Girls who could sound like her too, and imitate the famous childlike, breathy American twang, were popular for voice-overs. The local Doubles club provided no end of work for them, as waitresses and sing-alikes. Marilyn was more popular now than in her lifetime.
Today Doubles was auditioning new Marilyns, and the agency had sent everyone they had. The queue of hopefuls stretched right along the street and around the corner, and it wasn’t getting any shorter. As fast as they left, more wannabe Marilyns arrived.
Mouth was watching, unnoticed behind the broad trunk of a huge, ancient fir tree on the other side of the road. Now, which Marilyn to go for? It made a person giddy, all these women pretending to be Marilyn Monroe.
How did some of them have the nerve? One was fifty if she was a day; her thighs were uglier than the trunk of the fir tree.
Mouth hadn’t found the right one yet. No one out of this lot deserved to die like Monroe. A grubby shirt sleeve wiped away the sweat brought on by a combination of nerves and excitement. The costume stank, and the wig still felt like a dead rat. Mouth leaned back against the tree until the sweating subsided. Then she was there. She had just walked up and joined the queue.
She was perfect.
The first things Mouth noticed were the red stilettos. Then the legs: seamed stockings, exactly right. She wore a flared dress, not unlike the one in The Seven Year Itch, the film in which the goddess herself stood over a fan which blew her white pleated skirt up in the air.
This would-be Marilyn had a tiny waist and a perfect cleavage, and a face that at the right angle could be her; she even had the black beauty spot just above her mouth. She was the one. All Mouth had to do was set it all in motion.
The girl couldn’t be allowed to move out of sight, yet it was vital not to be seen, at least not yet. Mouth went back behind the tree, watching as the queue moved; how clever to think of the newspaper to hide behind; it was easy to peer over the top and watch her as she drew nearer to the audition. Mouth knew she’d be chosen.
She entered the building and Mouth waited patiently. When she came out she clutched a piece of paper. She had got through; she would be a Marilyn.
Or would she?
She walked away, and Mouth followed her into the next street. Now it was time to make a move.
“Excuse me.”
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were huge and blue, just like Marilyn’s.
“I saw you go into the audition. How did you do?”
“Who are you?”
Stuck up little cow. Why didn’t she just answer the bloody question? Mouth knew the answer anyway. “I work for an advertising company, and I wondered...”
But before the sentence was properly finished she turned and walked away.
Bitch.
She was going nowhere, though she didn’t know it yet.
A bus came along as she walked to the corner of the road. Mouth panicked for a moment. If she boarded, it would be gone too quickly and the chance would be lost.
The bus was a 47. Her delicate hand with the bright red nail polish reached out and hailed it. Mouth watched as her crisp, cotton dress disappeared inside and the door closed behind her.
Mouth ran, panting with exertion and frustration; that awful sweat was breaking again. The chance was gone, and she had been perfect.
Mouth wanted to be sick, then almost cried with relief. A taxi was coming down the road and the For Hire sign was flashing.
Chapter Eleven
Alison tried not to breathe in the sickening smell of putrid flesh overlaid with disinfectant. She turned her head away, and only heard the sound of the saw ripping into the greying flesh, spilling blood that pooled into the sluice below the gurney. She turned back to see Michael, the assistant, remove Sadie’s heart and put it aside to be weighed and dissected.
Another assistant arrived with a bag of sandwiches for every-one’s lunch. Alison had a strong constitution, had seen over a hundred murder victims and attended countless post-mortems; now for the first time she felt queasy and swallowed down the bitter taste of bile. She was suddenly aware of the embarrassment poor Banham suffered, and how powerful guilt was. It clung to her now, creeping and embracing her like a weed choking the life out of healthy plant, making her doubt her own judgement. Could she have stopped the second murder?
Michael was sawing into the top of the head as if it was a boiled egg. Alison concentrated on the label around the ivory toe, identifying the corpse as Sadie
Morgan. When the brain had been removed, Alison allowed herself to study the remains of the bloated face. A lot of skin was missing from the nose and cheeks; she had been dragged a fair way along the ground. Chances were high then, Alison thought, that she was killed quite near the alleyway where they found the bag; she was probably targeted and followed. It could well be the same stalker, whatever Banham thought.
Heather Draper, the pathologist, was gowned in green overalls and blue gloves. She spoke softly into her dictaphone as Michael finished weighing the brain.
One of the CID detectives took the opportunity to move in and photograph the face close up.
The sawing, peeling back of the skin and removal of more organs seemed to go on longer than usual today – or perhaps it just felt that way to Alison. Finally Heather turned to her, holding a hair between a pair of tweezers in her blue-gloved hands. She carefully put it in an evidence bag and handed it to the exhibits officer.
“Suffocation and asphyxiation,” she told Alison. “That was in the windpipe. The killer could have had a fur coat, or it may have come from a glove, or maybe an animal. I hope that helps.”
“There were ducks in the pond where she was dumped,” Alison commented.
Heather shook her head. “That’s Penny’s territory, not mine. I’ll let you know the contents of her stomach later. There’s the edge of a footprint on her face too. I can’t say whether that came before or after the suffocation.”
“Anything about the shoe it came from?” Alison asked.
“We’ve sent the outline over to Penny.”
Michael moved back in and began to sew the opened body up with black thread. Alison closed her eyes; no need to watch this part.
Her thoughts drifted back to Banham, and the situation they had made for themselves. She had long accepted that he would never get over Diane and Elizabeth; would she be able to go on living with that? Did she even want to? She had always seen herself as a career girl, not the type to settle down. Perhaps letting him get too close was a mistake for both of them. She wanted to progress in the force, and he needed someone who could devote more time to him.
Lily Palmer’s body was wheeled out and unzipped. Alison gave herself a little shake. Back to the job in hand.
Once again a smell of stale meat rose from the sluices as the electric saw opened the cranium and Michael removed her brain. As he cut into Lily’s young, flawless body and removed her stomach and heart, Alison kept swallowing back bile. It scalded her throat like a finger jabbing into her, asking the question, could she have prevented this?
“She hadn’t been dead long when she was found; rigor hadn’t set in,” Heather said. “The poker up her anus caused some bleeding.”
“So it was done before she died?” Alison asked.
“Or within moments. The sphincter muscle is torn – normally there would have been more blood from that. I’d say it happened just after death.”
“The killer was angry, then,” Alison said, half to herself. “Why? What had she done?”
She thanked Heather and was about to unzip her forensic overall when the pathologist turned, holding up her tweezers again. “Another hair, caught between the front teeth. Give it to Penny.” She carefully placed it inside another evidence bag.
“The same as the first victim?” Alison asked.
“Looks identical,” Heather said. “And Lily Palmer wasn’t found in a duck pond.”
The bus stopped right in front of the taxi and the girl stepped off.
“Pull over!” Mouth screamed, flinging a twenty pound note at the driver for the fare and waving the change aside. What was money?
She walked away past a parade of shops, stiletto heels tapping on the pavement. Luckily Mouth knew this area. Imagine if the chosen girl had lived the other side of beyond? She could hardly walk in those high shoes. That amused Mouth; little did any of them know they might need to run!
Mouth wore boots, easy to run in. They hurt like hell, too, when pressed into a face.
An alleyway between the shops led to a small side street that joined the one the girl was heading for. Mouth made use of the short cut, legging it quietly and quickly, until only a few yards separated them. Mustn’t be seen, but mustn’t lose her. She had that sexy Marilyn walk; her curvy figure wiggled sexily in the figure-hugging blue and white dress. Mouth could almost hear the fabric rustling. Just thinking about that pillow brought a rush; oh, the sense of power when they surrendered to it and fell with a thud as the life was squeezed out of them.
A man was coming towards her. He obviously knew her; he waved and called, “Amy!” Then big arms slipped around her shoulders, and they walked on together up the hill and down the side of a house.
Mouth seethed as the man put his key in the front door. They were walking in, together, a happy couple.
Not for long! This was the chosen one; she wasn’t going to get away. All Mouth needed was an opportunity.
Alison stood in front of the whiteboard. She had trouble telling which girl was which as she relayed on the findings of the postmortem, until she concentrated on the pictures taken at the murder scenes.
“There was a common denominator: two identical hairs, one on each victim. Sadie’s was her windpipe, Lily’s caught in her teeth. Perhaps the killer wore a fur coat or gloves.”
“A marabou boa?” Crowther suggested. “All the Marilyns at the club wear red marabou boas.”
A spatter of applause went round the room at that, and a few jeers of Know-All Col, Crowther’s nickname.
Twenty-four detectives were now on the case, some seconded in. All were aware that they needed a quick result. The long-planned raid on Doubles was only two days away; a lot hung on catching this killer quickly. Alison was already feeling the mounting pressure.
“No sign of sexual intercourse with either victim,” Alison said. “And yet the poker in the anus has something phallic about it, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps our killer’s impotent,” Isabelle suggested.
Banham had hung back, letting Alison take the lead. Now he took a step forward. “I think there may be a copycat killer,” he said. “The second murder was more frenzied, the first suggests a calculated killer. I’m not at all sure it’s the same person.”
“The second one could have been in more of a hurry, guv.” This was Crowther.
“What about the hair?” Alison said.
“Like I said, the feather boas,” Crowther pointed out. “Both girls wore them.”
“Or...” Banham picked up a marker pen and pointed to a picture of Eddie Chang.
“Wears a toupée!” Crowther said triumphantly. “He’s a known killer, and would stop at nothing. He’s got to be top of the list.”
“How do you know he wears a toupée?” Isabelle said derisively.
“Millie told me.”
“Oh, that’s gospel then.”
“She’s sure.” “She’s slept with him,” Isabelle goaded him. “How else could she be sure?”
“Enough, you two,” Alison said. “OK, we need hair samples from everyone at the club.” She pointed at two detectives standing close to the door. “You go with Crowther. Make sure you include Chang and Terry King and Gladman.”
“Ma’am.”
Banham tapped the board. “We can’t discount Bruno Pelegino, husband of the first victim,” he said. “We’ve got motive and opportunity: Sadie was trying to divorce him, and he’s on CCTV watching her as she left the club.”
“He has an alibi for both murders,” Isabelle said sadly. “We had to let him go.”
“His alibi is as weak as dishwater. He’s still a strong suspect for Sadie.”
“But not Lily Palmer.”
“That’s my point,” Banham persisted. “Two killers.” He pointed to the picture of Johnny Gladman. “Small time dealer, done last year. Seen on CCTV giving Sadie something; he says it was a small amount of grass, but we found none in her bag.”
“Motive there is jealousy,” Isabelle said. “Perhaps
she turned him down.”
“Terry King.” Alison pointed to the strange-looking man dressed as a woman. “Lives with Eddie Chang in a homosexual relationship. Maybe resents all the Marilyns, because of Chang’s obsession with them.”
“The poker would fit with that,” Isabelle agreed. “But has an alibi. He was at the market buying sequins, and has receipts to prove it.”
“Oh, come on, who gets receipts from a market trader?” Banham scoffed. “That’s Chang’s doing – he could provide receipts for buying immigrant women.”
“Terry King’s a wig dresser,” Isabelle pointed out. “Around hair all the time.”
Alison nodded. “We need to find out more about that hair.” She looked across at Crowther. “We’re waiting on Penny again.”
Crowther gave a quick nod, took out his phone and left the room. Alison gave the rest of the squad a swift recap, and had just finished when he returned.
“Penny’s got a positive ID on the fingerprints on the knife, and the gun found in the first victim’s bag. Wait for this: the prints belong to Otis Gladman.”
The silence was electric. Every eye was on Banham.
“Guv, it gets better.” Crowther paused until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “The blood on the knife. It’s Felix Greene’s. This is the knife that stabbed him.”
Banham closed his eyes and steadied himself on the edge of the nearest desk. “We’ll bring him in,” he said to Alison. “I’ve got an address from the school.” He looked across at the two detectives by the door. “And when you go back to the club to get hair samples, you can arrest Johnny Gladman for withholding evidence. He told us his brother lived with him, and he doesn’t. And make sure he’s got his mobile on him – if we have trouble finding Otis we’ll use it to trace him.”
Crowther grimaced. “Ma’am, Chang is getting nervous. If we go in with our size twelve boots this morning, we could blow the CO19 operation.”
A couple of detectives sniggered. “Size twelve! Size six, more like,” Alison caught. She glared around the room and everyone fell quiet again.