Dead Like Her

by Linda Regan

  “This is a double murder enquiry,” Banham said. “That has to take precedence.”

  “There are other lives at risk if we rattle Chang’s cage,” Crowther disputed. “The girls he’s bringing in may be illegal immigrants, but they’re only kids. I wouldn’t want their deaths on my conscience.”

  Banham gave him a long look. Crowther continued, “There is a solution, guvnor.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Millie Payne. She’s already got her feet under Chang’s table. I think we should let her stay there, undercover.”

  Alison shook her head. “She’s made enough mistakes already. She doesn’t have the experience.”

  There was a pause. Then, “I’m with Crowther,” Banham said. “I think we should run with it.”

  Alison closed her eyes. Dammit, why did he have to keep questioning her decisions? It was her case; she needed to get on with the job without interference.

  But she had seen that steely glint in his eyes too many times. He wasn’t going to let this go. “OK, ”she said reluctantly. “But I want someone in there with her.”

  “Andrew Fisher can go – he can make out he’s her boyfriend,” Crowther said. “He’ll look out for her – he’s dots about her.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Alison looked at Isabelle. “You’d make a fabulous Marilyn. They’re auditioning today.”

  Whistles of approval came from every corner of the room, but Isabelle looked horrified.

  Crowther put his two penn’orth in. “She’s got no tits, and a voice like a foghorn.”

  “She doesn’t have to sing,” Alison snapped back.

  Isabelle shook her head firmly. “I wouldn’t get the job. And even if I did, I couldn’t do it.”

  “Oh, come on, Isabelle,” Alison coaxed. “You’re beautiful, you could dress as Marilyn any day. And you’re a damn good detective; you’d be such an asset to the case.”

  Isabelle still looked dubious.

  “How about applying to be a Marilyn lookalike waitress?” Banham suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to perform. You’d have more freedom too, walking around the club serving drinks.”

  “Colin’s right,” Isabelle said. “I don’t have the boobs for it. They’d turn me down.”

  Alison threw a look at Crowther, willing him to say something encouraging.

  “You could always wear a padded bra,” he said sarcastically.

  “It’s not about size – it’s quality that counts,” Alison said. “Isn’t that what you’re always boasting about Crowther?”

  More guffaws ran round the room.

  “Those PCSOs may be brave, but they’re completely un- qualified for the job,” Alison went on. “We need an experienced officer in there.” She looked Isabelle in the eye. “You’re the best, and you’d make a great Monroe. Tell me you’re up for it? Please?”

  Isabelle hesitated, but gave a little nod. She turned to face Crowther, and said in a voice that carried right round the room, “I wouldn’t jest about little if I was you. And I don’t mean your height.”

  There was more laughter, and Crowther came right back at her. “Well, you’ve certainly got the mouth to play Monroe!”

  “Oh, give it up, Crowther,” Alison said wearily. Just when she needed Isabelle to be on top form, he had to go and stick the knife in. He could be such a shit; he’d used Isabelle, and the entire squad knew how much he’d hurt her. Why couldn’t he just leave it alone?

  Isabelle was glaring at him furiously, hurling things into her shoulder bag.

  “You’ll do great,” Alison said to her. “You’ve got all afternoon to practise. Get Millie to help you – she knows all the moves.” The girl had her uses after all, she reflected. “The auditions go on till about seven tonight,” she finished.

  Crowther was looking serious for a change. “Just a thought, ma’am,” he said, carefully avoiding Isabelle’s irate glare. “She’ll have to change into costume with all the other girls, so she won’t be able to wear a wire. She could put my number in her phone, and tag it Mother. The she can call her mum when there’s something to report.”

  “Isabelle?” Alison queried.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Fisher can wear a wire,” Banham pointed out.

  Isabelle nodded. “He has to do as I tell him, OK?”

  Alison smiled. “OK,” she said.

  The opportunity Mouth had been waiting for came sooner than he expected.

  The happy couple walked together up the path to the house; the man went ahead and put his key in the front door. She went inside, but he didn’t follow. Instead he headed for the path at the side of the house, leading to the garden. Mouth watched him go into the shed at the end of the small lawn and reappear with a large shovel.

  A smile spread across Mouth’s face as the man propped the shovel against the garden table and returned to the shed. This kind of opportunity didn’t happen every day. It was risky, but Mouth thrived on risks.

  The man emerged from the shed backwards, struggling with a heavy lawn mower. Mouth sprinted across the road and leapt over the six-inch wall into the garden, grabbed the spade in gloved hands, raised it in the air and smashed it down hard across the man’s skull. He staggered, but didn’t go down; he turned round and got a good look. That brought a rush of adrenalin; Mouth lifted the shovel again and smashed the bastard’s face. He staggered, and blood shot out of his nose and landed on Mouth’s sleeve. Another hard blow and his face looked like a watering can that had sprung a leak; blood spilled out in all directions. He flung his hands up, trying desperately to defend himself and crying like a miserable fox under attack from a pack of savage hounds. Then he fell to the ground.

  A second later his hand shot out, grabbing at Mouth’s ankle. Mouth leapt back and jumped on the hand, and gave him another whack across the head in case the bastard thought of trying to get up. The man didn’t move. Luckily Mouth was wearing those boots: handy for giving a good kicking. Shame not to use the opportunity. The eyes first, blinded already from the blood pouring from the head. The head started jerking, and a phlegm-like substance flew out from somewhere, landing on Mouth’s jeans. Then the head lolled to one side, and the man lay still. Mouth thought that was it, but planted first one boot then the other on his face just to make sure. The cranium crunched and the jaw disintegrated. A final kick in the ear guaranteed that the interfering bastard would never get up. Things were suddenly going well.

  But what happened next threw everything out of kilter.

  She was wearing nothing but a lacy pink thong and a tiny pink tank top that finished delicately just above her tummy. She stood in the doorway looking as scared as hell; she had obviously heard the rumpus and come down to see what was happening.

  She looked terrified, and started to retreat inside the house. As Mouth advanced, she tried to push the door closed. The thought that she might dial 999 started the adrenalin rush again. Mouth dropped the spade and shoved a blood-spattered boot against the door before she could shut it. She started to yell, and pushed the door against the boot. Mouth pushed back, the door gave way, and both feet were in the hall. She stood frozen to the spot as the door slammed shut.

  Now perhaps she’d show some proper respect.

  Then the bitch started to run. Mouth grabbed her bare ankle and pulled her back down the stairs one by one. God, she could scream! A good belt across the side of the head soon shut her up.

  Another clout made sure; her head banged hard against the wall, and she fell still. Mouth peered at her; her neck hung awkwardly, and she appeared to be unconscious.

  Good, Mouth thought, now she wouldn’t do all that resisting stuff. This one had to look like a proper sex attack. That would really throw the stupid coppers.

  Mouth tugged clumsily at her lacy vest. The woollen gloves were full of the bastard’s blood and bits of stone and stuff from the garden spade. But after a few moments the vest covered her pale, shiny, ringletted hair and revealed her pink nipples. They weren’
t pert and sticking up like earlier; they looked squashy and swollen against her breasts. Mouth reached into a pocket for a flick-knife, and slit her at the side of one nipple. The blood spurted straight away. That did the trick; the nipple no longer looked offensive.

  She deserved a lesson for all that howling and screaming; the knife touched her upper lip for a second, dug into the faded red pout and drew a cross from one side of the mouth to the other. The blood was quite funny; it shot up like a small leak in a perished shower hose.

  That was when the stupid cow woke up, opened her eyes wide, then rolled them back. Now she was ugly. Bloody hideous, in fact.

  Mouth left her slumped on the stairs and went in search of a pillow. Disappointingly there was no resistance when it pressed down across her face. That was almost the best part: the kick to the back of the knees to subdue them, the bluish tinge that spread as they fought to stay alive; that was fun. But this one was over in an instant. Blood had stopped pumping from the nipple and the lips. She was well and truly dead – the main point of the exercise even if it hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

  Mouth was anxious that some nosy passer by might snoop round the side of the house and see the bastard lying in a lump on the back lawn. He was dead too; his own fault, stupid fucker shouldn’t have got in the way. Mouth had to get out of here now, and hope for the best.

  Banham noticed the used condom left rotting along with a few old dog turds – at least, he hoped they were from dogs. It was enough to put anyone off having sex, he thought.

  Alison was attaching a crook lock to her car then double-checking she had locked it. He stood at the entrance to the run-down Bay Estate waiting for her to catch up with him.

  Banham wanted Otis Gladman in the interview room. His prints on that gun had opened up a whole new line of enquiry, and he was concerned that it could put Bobby at risk. The truth of the Felix Greene stabbing had yet to be discovered, and it was far from impossible that it was connected to the murder of the two women.

  Cigarette packets, fast food containers and scraps of paper blew around in the wind as they walked into the estate. They had decided to park some distance away; it wasn’t often that a car left around here was intact when its driver returned, even after a short visit. The residents of the estate recognised the police a mile off, and would delight in removing the wheels of Alison’s Golf.

  “It’s the tenth floor, I’m afraid,” Banham told her. “You can bet the lift isn’t working.”

  “No problem for me,” she said. “It’s you that doesn’t use your gym membership.”

  Banham sped off and started running up the graffiti-clad, urine-smelling concrete stairwell, avoiding the rubbish that littered the steps. But Alison was waiting on the tenth floor with a smile on her face when he breathlessly caught her up.

  “I’m nearly ten years older than you,” he said by way of an excuse.

  “Six years, and you take too much sugar in your coffee.”

  She was in great shape, mainly because she had the self- discipline to go to the gym after a long day on a case. It only served to make him feel overweight and inadequate.

  A couple of black youths in hooded sweatshirt tops and sagging jeans sauntered toward them. “Who you looking for?” one asked. Banham spotted a shiny handle sticking out of the boy’s waistband. He was carrying.

  “I’m looking for Otis Gladman. His brother sent me.”

  The youth shrugged. “Never heard of him. He don’t live round here.”

  The second youth folded his arms and leaned back against the brick wall. Within a few seconds three more youths had appeared out of nowhere, and stood beside the first two.

  “He lives at 102, I think,” Alison said. There was menace in the air, and she knew there might be even more boys close by. Her police radio was in her pocket, but the sight of it could start a riot on an estate like this.

  She set off for the landing, but the first youth took a step and blocked her way.

  “I said he ain’t here.”

  Banham backed towards the stairs. This wasn’t safe for either of them. But Alison decided to front it out. “He told me I could get something if I came to his flat.”

  A taller, brown-skinned boy stepped toward her. “You’re not listenin’, lady. He don’t live here.”

  He glanced down at his belt. The handle sticking out looked as if it belonged to a meat cleaver.

  “OK. We made a mistake.” Banham put a hand on Alison’s shoulder. As he turned to leave, he came face to face with another half-dozen teenagers, all in baggy jeans and hoodies, with dark bandanas over their faces. Shiny blade handles were evident in every belt.

  Banham stood for a second, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. He wasn’t concerned for himself; his fear was that Alison would come off badly if something kicked off and there was no time to call for back-up. He tried to walk past the boys, but they blocked him. He deliberately avoided their eyes, slowly walked around them and started to walk down the stairs, with Alison close behind.

  They hadn’t reached the bottom of the first flight when all hell broke loose. A hail of bricks and bottles flew after them, and shouts of “Pigs!” and “Fucking feds!” followed. Banham ducked to avoid a couple of bottles, and as he turned to check if Alison was OK, he saw a small table hit the back of her head and bounce off her shoulder. It smashed to the ground, and all his instincts dragged him towards the stairs.

  “Leave it!” Alison shouted. “Do you want to get yourself stabbed?”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “We’ll sort it later. I’m fine.” She clearly wasn’t. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll call for back-up when we get to the car.”

  They ran.

  As soon as they reached the safety of the road, Alison called for uniform back-up. She knew only too well that the youths would have scattered by the time they got there, but they had to try.

  “I bet one of them was Otis Gladman,” Banham said, clicking his seatbelt as Alison started the engine.

  “We need Crowther and a fleet of uniforms with dogs,” Alison said. “If anyone can sort that little lot out, it’s Col.”

  “I’m not risking Crowther,” Banham said. “He’s too hot-headed. We’ll get Johnny Gladman to bring the lad in. Otis is under sixteen; he should be under parental control.”

  His phone rang and he stabbed the Speak button. It was Crowther.

  “Guv, there’s been another murder. This one’s a double.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The news of the double murder had reached Crowther through his mate DI Charlie Sandford, who was based a couple of miles from the scene. Charlie had spoken to a neighbour; it seemed the female victim, Amy Bailey, had been to audition at Doubles; Charlie had called Crowther right away. It was only a matter of minutes before the news was confirmed by HOLMES, the police computer system which connects similar murder cases in different parts of the country.

  “That’s it, then,” Alison said as Banham clicked his phone off. “The Doubles undercover job is off.”

  Banham’s phone rang again. This time it was Isabelle. He listened in silence for a few moments, then said, “Are you sure? You can pull out – no one will think the worse of you.” He listened again, said “OK, then,” and switched off.

  “She’s determined to go in now,” he told Alison. “Crowther tried to talk her out of it, but now there are three lookalikes dead she’s not having it. The PCSOs too. They want this joker as much as we do.”

  “I know. But I’m not happy about it. I still don’t think Payne and Fisher are up to the job.” Alison stepped on the accelerator and lurched over a succession of speed bumps.

  “Isabelle is sharp as a razor,” Banham assured her. “If she has the slightest doubt about their safety she’ll pull out.”

  “I wish I felt so confident.”

  “Christ, Alison, stop, the lights are red!”

  She slammed her foot on the brake and the car juddered to a halt. “Can you please stop
behaving like my father?” she said through gritted teeth. “They were amber.”

  “Sorry. I’ll let you kill us next time. How’s your shoulder?”

  “It’s fine,” she said curtly. “What about the raid on the Bay Estate?”

  “It’s in hand. They’re taking a dog patrol; the lads are bound to leg it. Wait till I get my hands on the bastard that threw that table at you.”

  Isabelle had dressed herself up in a clingy black skirt with a slit at the side, seamed stockings and stiletto-heeled shoes she could barely stand in. She stood in a long queue of hopefuls, all auditioning for a chance to be Marilyn Monroe. And she hadn’t the faintest idea what to do.

  All the same, another woman had been killed, and if stopping the killer meant getting a job as a sodding Marilyn Monroe impersonator, that was what she’d do. Millie had tried to coach her in the sexy pout and provocative wiggle, but she had to rush off so she wouldn’t be late for her own rehearsal at Doubles.

  If they pulled this off and it led to a result, when the next sergeant’s post became available perhaps she wouldn’t be overlooked. A Marilyn cocktail waitress was her best bet, as Banham had suggested; that would allow her to walk freely about the club under the pretence of serving drinks.

  Her normal dress code was jeans and trainers, and she felt ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortable, standing here in a skirt with a side-split as high as her thigh. She had borrowed it from one of the public relations secretaries at the station. Millie had lent her the stockings and suspender belt and the high-heeled red shoes, and she wore her own cropped red bodice top, the one that emphasised her tiny waist. Crowther had paid her a back-handed compliment; he liked the cropped top, he said – it would draw attention away from her tiny bust. She wanted to hit him, until he smiled that smile.

  The only thing that kept her here was the knowledge that there was a third lookalike victim. She agreed a hundred percent with Alison that Millie Payne was too inexperienced and too keen: not a good combination for working undercover. Isabelle knew all the dangers of the snake-pit she was going into, but feared Millie hadn’t a clue how ruthless Eddie Chang was. Millie was besotted with Crowther and wanted to impress him. Crowther, of course, was taking advantage.