Passion Killers

by Linda Regan

  “It comes and goes. He thinks I had an affair.”

  “Did you?”

  Olivia picked up a packet of menthol cigarettes from the table and shook one free. She pushed it into the side of her swollen mouth, and lit it with the heavy onyx lighter on the coffee table. “No. Marrying Ken put a stop to all that. I’m not a slag, Katie, whatever he thinks.”

  Katie perched on the arm of the sofa and put her arm around her friend. “Livvy, I know it’s hard. Deep down you still love him, but he can’t be allowed to get away with this. You have to tell the police he has a violent streak.”

  “It would ruin his career.”

  “He’s ruining your life! And Ianthe is terrified of him. He’s a bully, and I can’t understand how he’s got such a hold over you all. Ianthe will never trust men, and Kevin will become aggressive himself. And if he keeps getting away with it, he’ll only get worse.”

  Olivia dragged hard on the cigarette, blew the smoke out and took another deep puff.

  “Olivia, I’m sorry, but I’m not letting this go on. Here’s the deal: either you tell the police Ken did that to your face, or I will.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Olivia sat bolt upright.

  “So you do it.”

  Olivia ground the end of the cigarette into the ashtray.

  “I mean it, Livvy. There’s too much at stake here.”

  Olivia rubbed the back of her neck. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just… He’s my husband, Katie. I can’t let myself believe he’s a…” She swallowed hard. “OK. I’ll talk to the police. But don’t be surprised if he kills me.”

  “Brave girl,” Katie said gently. “I’ll come with you if you like.”

  “No, I’d rather go alone. I’ll have to do it before they release him or I’ll lose my nerve. I’ll go this morning.”

  After Heather Draper had examined the cornflakes, milk, and fruit juice Theresa had consumed for breakfast, she moved to the wound across the throat. Again Banham nodded to the exhibits officer, and the DC moved in with his video camera and photographed the wound from every possible angle.

  “The pattern is the same as in the other two victims,” Heather said, pointing to the crusted, blackened blood on the neck. “Same shape, same depth. I’d stake my reputation he used the same weapon.”

  “Which we haven’t found,” Alison added.

  “You’re looking for a knife about nine inches long,” Heather told her.

  “What about any residue on the wound from the knife?” Banham asked her.

  “Yes, I was going to mention that,” Heather said. “The grit in this wound is consistent with what I found on the last victim, but not the same as the first one. Penny, do you want to…?”

  She raised a hand, and Penny Starr stepped forward, a flat utensil in her blue-gloved hand. She scraped carefully at the tiny particles of grit edging the neck wound and slid it into an evidence bag. “I’ll make this a priority,” she said. “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

  Banham rubbed his hand across his mouth thoughtfully. “The weapon was hidden. After the first murder he hid it, then put it back in the same place after the second. I’ll bet he’s put it back again, and it’s there now.”

  “Or she,” Alison said in a low voice.

  “So wherever it was kept, it wasn’t very clean. Heather, do we know anything else, other than a nine-inch blade?”

  “It was sharp, maybe new. A butcher’s knife, or one used for carving. Could be a good quality kitchen knife.”

  “Could the grit be soil? Perhaps it’s been hidden outside, in a shed or a garage.”

  “Crowther searched the Stones’ house,” Alison said, “but I didn’t see anything in the report about the garden. I’m trying to remember if they’ve got a garden shed.”

  “You can see the garden from that long lounge,” Banham said. “I didn’t notice a shed. Just loads of different trees.”

  “Very green and very well kept,” Alison added. “The front ones, at least.”

  “I can test for unusual foliage,” Penny offered.

  “Good idea,” said Banham. His mobile bleeped for attention, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Alison followed him into the corridor.

  “That was the DCI again,” he said, flicking it closed. “Ken Stone’s solicitor is claiming police harassment, and the DCI wants him either charged or released before we have the press down on our heads.”

  “We can only charge him with assaulting a police officer,” Alison said. “And we’ll have to bail him.”

  “Drop me back at the station,” Banham said. “I’ll try to stall for time. You pick up Isabelle and take one of Penny’s team back to the Stones’ to look at the garden. But try not to be seen. It will take at least two hours to get a section eighteen search through.”

  “Even if your name is Crowther?”

  “I’ll get him on to it,” Banham said with a brief grin. “Start a search of the grounds anyway. See if there’s a shed, then scoop up some soil and foliage samples.”

  Alison nodded. “Katie Faye is staying there.”

  Banham stiffened. “What are you saying?”

  “She’s a suspect. So is Olivia Stone.”

  “I think you’re wrong. Those women are victims.”

  They had reached the door. Alison pushed it open and took out her car keys. “But you admit yourself, you’re not very good at reading women.”

  “I can read you.”

  “Really? Go on, then. What am I thinking?” She smiled at him; that twinkle he found so attractive was back in her eyes.

  But he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. Of course he didn’t.

  Before he could think of something to say, she had climbed into her car and started the engine.

  Judy had brought the large wooden skip of costumes down from the loft. She knelt on the floor on the landing, sorting through the feather boas, lacy body-stockings and other skimpy garments. Kim sat beside her, folding the costumes neatly and putting them into piles to go back in the skips.

  “There are definitely no g-strings in here,” Judy said. “I thought I remembered seeing some, in the boxes Ken Stone passed to us.”

  Kim finished folding a white lace maid’s apron and added it to the pile. It was a few seconds before she answered in a quiet voice. “There were. They were with the bag of different coloured tassels. I took that box to the school, remember? We used them in the Chicago number we did in the Christmas show. That box of costumes is still there, in the props wardrobe.”

  “Are they the boxes you were going through yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looking for red g-strings?”

  Kim nodded. “But they weren’t the ones that we used when we worked at the club. We all took our g-strings home and washed them ourselves. We always did that, so we didn’t wear each other’s. That’s why we initialled them.”

  Judy watched her carefully.

  “So,” she continued a little louder, “the red g-strings in these skips wouldn’t belong to any of us.” She paused for a few seconds. “Because after we went home that night, we never danced again.” She laid the white aprons back in the skip and took a deep breath. “We went back to the club on the Monday, because we had agreed to turn up and make it look as if everything was normal. But we knew it wasn’t. He was dead, and the club would be closed and we wouldn’t be dancing.” Her voice cracked. “Because he was dead. We’d killed him.” She took a deep breath and seemed to calm down a little. “So I didn’t bring my g-strings with me to the club. I left them at home, and I assumed the other girls had too.”

  “But you can’t be sure?”

  “No.” She looked at Judy, and repeated, a little more loudly, “No. I can’t be sure.”

  “So what exactly are you saying?”

  “That the red g-strings in the costume skips weren’t the ones that belonged to us. “They wouldn’t have had our initials on them.”

  “But there aren’t any red g-stri
ngs in this skip, are there?”

  “There don’t seem to be, no.”

  “And the ones left with the bodies did have initials on them.”

  Kim couldn’t look at Judy. “Someone is trying to frame us.”

  “Who?” Judy asked, struggling to keep her voice level. “Do you mean Ken Stone?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “So what are you looking for?”

  “Costumes. Our costumes, the ones we wore.”

  Judy put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not following this,” she said, trying to stay calm.

  “If I could recognise any of the costumes, I might be able to… But I can’t, because my memory’s shot to pieces by the drugs. And it’s so long ago.” She stood up and clutched at the banister rail. “The club was closed that night, when we came back to work,” she went on. “There was no work. The police were there, asking questions. So all our costumes were left behind. They had our initials on them–that’s what we did. If I could just see them again, I might remember who wore them, then I could check the initials. And I’d know who used what initial…”

  Her voice trailed away and she began to tremble. Judy got to her feet and put a hand on her partner’s shoulder. “But you can’t, Sausage. It was so long ago. No one expects…”

  “I was called Dusty Springfield, I think.” She knuckled her eyes like a child. She looks so tired, Judy thought. “But I can’t rely on my memory. Dusty. But I’m sure he called me Rusty sometimes. He hated me,” she ended, a sob in her voice.

  “There’s a mix-up about Olivia and Katie’s names. You can’t clear that one up, can you?”

  “You’ve asked me that already.” She ran her fingers through her hair and scratched her head. “Katie changed her name. Ahmed made some disgusting remark about her pubic hair tasting of candyfloss, so she changed it to Honeysuckle.” She nodded thoughtfully, as if she was pleased she had remembered. “That’s it. Olivia was Strawberry, and Katie was Candyfloss but changed to Honeysuckle. And we wrote our initials with Olivia’s red pen, and Olivia drew a strawberry next to her initial. Unless I dreamed it.”

  “Red pen? Didn’t you say blue before?”

  “Did I? Oh, I’m not sure. Yes, I think you’re right, it was blue. The costumes in the other skip are marked in red ink, but not with our initials. Someone else marked theirs in red.” She rubbed her temple. “It’s all a blur. I don’t remember any of us wearing the French Maid or the Bunny Rabbit costumes, and that’s all there is in that skip.”

  Judy put her arm round her. “I’m going to make you some Earl Grey tea. You’re tired, Sausage, and I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

  “I hate those police being outside spying on us. Can’t they leave you to look after me? You will, won’t you? Whatever happens?”

  “Forget about them, Sausage. I will always look after you.” Her hand moved to cover her mouth. Kim was pale and thin, and that grey cardigan would have gone round her a dozen times. She ran her long fingers through her short brown hair, and looked around with nervous eyes before walking down the stairs. Judy threw the costumes back in the skip and followed her.

  Crowther was out of his chair and heading for Banham as soon as he walked in the incident room. Banham didn’t let him get a word out. “Yes, I know,” he said to the young DC.

  Crowther spread his arms defensively. “I haven’t said a word yet!”

  Banham kept walking. “The DCI is on my case. Ken Stone’s brief is having a field day, and is going to take me to the complaints board. And you’ve heard a rumour about a sergeant’s job, so you’re telling me before anyone else can.”

  “OK, guv.” Crowther held up his hands. “Just trying to help.”

  “If you really want to help, get me a section eighteen for Alison and Isabelle, marked an hour ago. They’re on their way to the Stones’.”

  “I’m on it, guv.”

  “You didn’t notice a shed in the Stones’ garden, did you?”

  Crowther shook his head. “There’s an orchard at the back of the garden. I walked through it. It goes on forever, but there ain’t no shed.”

  Banham pushed out his bottom lip.

  “There’s a small summer house,” Crowther offered. “I looked in there; just a couple of chairs and a few motoring magazines.”

  That was something. Banham flipped his phone open and called Alison.

  “Any danger of me knowing why ashed?” Crowther asked as Banham closed his phone.

  “The PM has turned up some grit on the second and third victims, but not on the first. Looks like the weapon was hidden in the same place both times – probably outside.”

  “Could it be a lock-up?” Crowther suggested. “The killer could have rented a garage.”

  Banham stopped, and turned to look at Crowther. “Well done,” he said. “It could be. Let’s check Kenneth Stone’s personals, and see if there are any extra keys are on his key-ring. Then we’ll talk to him just once more before the DCI knows I’m back and makes us bail the bastard.”

  A voice boomed across the room. “DI Banham!”

  The DCI. For a moment Banham felt a child whose hand had been caught in the biscuit jar. Then to his relief his phone bleeped. He put it to his ear, giving the senior officer a polite nod. As he listened to the voice at the other the end his face broke into a broad smile. “We’ll be waiting for you,” he said, giving Crowther a triumphant thumbs-up. “Thank you, Olivia.” He closed his phone and beamed at the DCI. “Mrs Stone wants her husband charged with domestic violence and kept away from her and the kids. She’s on her way in to make it official.”

  “Nice one, guvnor,” Crowther grinned.

  “I’ll tell the boss we’re going to let him go within the hour. You can tell his brief the same. Then you get the pleasure of taking Mr Stone through to release him, and as he is claiming his possessions you re-arrest him for domestic violence. Meanwhile Alison and Isabelle are turning his garden over looking for a weapon. And we’ve now got another thirty-six hours to find it.”

  15

  Alison’s newly mended exhaust was dragging on the ground as the car bounced over the potholes of Cherry Tree Walk. Every few second’s stones flew from either side of the wheels, some hitting the windscreen. Isabelle was finding the experience highly amusing, which only served to wind Alison up further.

  The police surveillance car was missing; one member of the team had driven Olivia Stone to the station. A solitary officer raised his hand in greeting as Alison drew the car to a halt. He pointed at the traffic cone reserving a space opposite the Stones’ driveway, but Alison shook her head and lowered the window.

  “No,” she said to the young DC. “Katie Faye is in there with the children. We don’t want them to see us from the window – we’re still waiting for our search warrant.” She put the car in reverse and the wheels spun in a pothole, kicking up a stone which hit the paintwork. She cursed under her breath. “I’m parking under that bush by the wall. We’ll be out of sight there, from all sides of the house.”

  The surveillance officer backed away, and for once Isabelle didn’t argue. She pulled blue forensic gloves over her hands picked up the black evidence bag from the floor. “You don’t like Katie Faye, do you?”

  Alison revved the car noisily as she reversed, drove forward a few inches than back again, each time trying and failing to edge nearer to the wall. “Like has nothing to do with anything,” she said. “I don’t trust her, or Olivia Stone.”

  “Nothing to do with the way our DI can’t take his eyes off the lovely Miss Faye?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did.”

  Alison slammed her foot on the brake. The car was still sticking out at an angle. “Let’s just concentrate on the job, shall we?” Realising how badly she had parked, she started moving the car backwards and forwards again, but to no avail. “He’s a useless judge of women, you said that yourself.”

  Isabelle said nothing.

  “If he f
ancies her, that’s his lookout,” Alison added. She brought the car to a standstill and noticed Isabelle squeezing her lips together. “All right, I’m the world’s worst at parking. Don’t rub it in.”

  Isabelle swallowed the laugh. “What are we looking for, sergeant?”

  “Collect earth, foliage and stones.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll go round the back to check the summer house. If we’re seen, say we have a search warrant. Know-all Col is on the case, so I have no doubt we’ll have one soon.”

  Alison opened the car door. “And you don’t like those women any more than I do.”

  “I certainly don’t trust them.”

  “Woman’s intuition.” Alison closed the door quietly. “Ken Stone isn’t the only suspect around here.”

  “It’s not looking good for him,” Isabelle pointed out. She took a leap and landed lightly on top of the fence, then disappeared over the otherside, unhampered by her longblack coat, or the pink and mauve scarf knotted around her neck. She even managed to climb a fence looking gorgeous, Alison thought. As usual she had chosen practical clothes for the damp and frosty weather: khaki chords, brown flecked jumper over a thick green shirt, with her parka-style anorak over the top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a dull brown scrunchy, and on her feet she wore sensible brown walking boots. She would have loved to be naturally sexy and feminine, like the Katie Fayes and the Isabelles of the world, with tiny waists and button noses. But she preferred comfortable, sporty clothes, didn’t like make-up except for special occasions, and her favourite sport was self defence. No wonder Banham couldn’t take his eyes off Katie Faye.

  But she couldn’t think about that now; she had a job to do. She was over the fence and standing in the driveway in a couple of seconds, and found herself face to face with Katie. The actress was wearing a sugar pink t-shirt tucked into ice-blue jeans, finished off with a thick black leather belt that accentuated her tiny waist.

  “What are you doing, what’s going on?” she asked looking from Alison to Isabelle, who was already on her knees and had started shovelling dirt from the ground into a plastic evidence bag.