by Ellis, Tim
‘Because I’m firing blanks, I think about it three times as much now.’
‘Yes well, you keep those blanks in your gun until you get home, Raymond Kowalski.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going to have some dinner, and then come back to the room and climb into bed. Come to think of it, there might be some free porn on the television.’
‘That’s a good boy. I’ve got to go now, I have four hungry kids to feed.’
‘See you tomorrow night, darling. I love you.’
‘I love you as well, DCI Kowalski.’
‘Don’t call me that, you know how randy I get.’
She laughed.
He ended the call, took another drink of champagne, and closed his eyes. The room began to spin. He felt lightheaded. He wondered if the alcohol was interacting with the drugs he took for his heart.
After quickly washing himself, he climbed out of the bath and put on the complimentary towelling bathrobe. He was obviously out of practice if a glass of bubbly could affect him so quickly. Maybe he’d have a lie down, and grab some dinner later.
He crawled on top of the bed, and as he drifted into the darkness he was sure he heard the door open.
***
She dropped Stick off at his four bedroom detached house in Woollensbrook. There was no point in taking him to the station for everyone to see what a mess he was.
‘Is this house yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘An inheritance?’
‘No, mine. My parents had less than nothing.’
‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘I know. My car’s at the station.’
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning at seven-thirty. Make sure you’re ready, because I won’t fucking wait. It’s a one-off deal, so don’t go thinking I’m your regular fucking chauffeur.’
‘Okay, Sarge. See you in the morning. Oh... and thanks for getting me to the dentist.’
‘Thanks! I thought you’d hate me.’
‘Yeah, I probably should, but I know it needed doing.’
She rummaged in her pocket, found the pain killers, and threw them to him through the open window. He made a half-hearted attempt to catch the brown envelope by flapping his hands about, but it hit him in the chest and seesawed to the ground.
‘For fuck’s sake, Stick. It beggars belief how you were ever in Special Ops.’
She put her foot on the accelerator and left him standing on the pavement like a pillar of salt.
Now to face the bitch from Buxton.
The investigative journalist Stephen Samuels seemed to be the key to this case. He must have stumbled onto what was happening, but if Doc Paine was right, it took him four years to put enough of the mosaic together to lead him to Hobbs Cross. They had no choice but to go to York to find out what Samuels was working on. Where the fucking hell was York? Could they get there and back in a day? She didn’t fancy staying overnight in a hotel with Stick. And what about the Buxton bitch? Was she staying, or going back tonight? She didn’t want to leave her at Hoddesdon to start interfering with the investigation while she and Stick were in York.
Would there be anything left of what Samuels had been working on in York? It was fifteen years ago. His children would probably be grown up by now, and his wife might have moved or re-married. And what about the York Sentinel – did it still exist? She’d have to check everything tonight. Crap, it was going to be a long night. She could have done with Stick’s help.
While they’re in York, they could also have a sniff around about Tracey Rush, the cinema usherette who went missing from the cinema in Haxby on 7th January 1993. God, that was nearly twenty years ago.
They were definitely looking for a man if all the women had been sexually assaulted. At least that narrowed it down to only half the country, and if they eliminated the young, the mentally and physically disabled, and the old they probably had a suspect pool of about eighteen million.
What was interesting was that seven women were killed in five years, but only four in thirteen years. It was likely that there were more bodies in the grounds somewhere.
She’d have to speak to Di Heffernan. In fact, she could do that now while her brain was in neutral and her car in fifth. She pushed the Bluetooth hands-free earpiece into her ear, found the number in the phonebook, and pressed to dial.
‘You must wait until I get into the bath to phone.’
‘At quarter to six! You’ve got a bad case of OCD if you’re in the bath at this time of night.’
‘You want to know what I’ve found, don’t you?’
‘No, I just thought we could talk about bags, shoes, and other girlie things.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. I bought this Fendi Spy handbag...’
‘I doubt that. You’re more the type to carry a rucksack, or push a Tesco shopping trolley.’
‘So kind.’
‘Look, I think there are more bodies in the grounds.’
‘If there are, we haven’t found them yet.’
‘Well, keep looking.’
‘Of course.’
‘What about the clothes and jewellery?’
‘The killer is a non-secretor. What that means is this: We found similar stains on the clothes across victims, but because he’s a non-secretor we couldn’t obtain a positive result. Secretors exhibit elements of their blood’s protein when they secrete other bodily fluids, while non-secretors don’t. It means that without a sample of his blood, we can’t identify a blood type or extract a DNA profile.’
‘Great. Even when you do find something, there’s always a reason why it’s no fucking good. I love you forensic bods.’
‘Glad we could help. Can I get back to my OCD now?’
‘Feel free.’
She ended the call. Another dead end. Maybe she’d kill the bitch from Buxton when she got to the station. They’d arrest her for murder, and she could laze about in a cell for the next fifteen years doing origami and painting still lifes of bowl’s of fruit.
Either the killer was a long-distance driver, or he travelled to these places specifically to select his victims. Once he’d found someone who fitted his profile, he’d brought them back to Essex, raped and killed them, and then buried them at Hobbs Cross. That was why these killings had gone on for so long. Different police forces, no co-ordination of effort or sharing of information, a local investigation for a local crime. Except, the victims were being taken half-way across the country. No trace was ever found of them. They may as well have been abducted by aliens.
Of all the questions swilling about inside her head, the one that kept rising to the surface was: How did the killer gain access to the grounds at 117 Hobbs Cross to bury the bodies?
***
It was five to seven when they parked outside the house. There were two cars in the driveway – One was Angie’s Ford Fiesta, the other was a Smart car that must belong to the nanny.
‘Why is she parked on our driveway?’ Richards said.
‘You hate her already, don’t you?’
‘I don’t even know her.’
‘You’ve made up your mind to hate her.’
‘I have not.’
‘If I see any evidence of you being arbitrarily unfair to her I’ll send you to your room.’
‘As if.’
‘She’s here to look after Jack, that’s all. Give her a chance. Just think what would happen if she wasn’t here.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I’d have to stay home to look after Jack. You’d be limited in what you could do with the case. The Chief would have to get two more detectives transferred in to take over our cases. You’d be driving a desk because they wouldn’t know what to do with you. When you came home you’d have to take your share of looking after Jack, so that I could go to the pub. We wouldn’t be able to visit your mum together unless we took Jack with us. So, it’s in your best interests to be nice to this Alicia Mae Carter.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. All right, I�
�ll give her a chance.’
‘I knew I’d find that reasonable bone sooner or later.’
Alicia Mae Carter was beautiful. When the idea of an au pair came to mind, it was accompanied by the picture of a blonde-haired young woman with a perfect body, blue eyes, and a heart-warming smile. Alicia Mae Carter was second generation Swedish. Her mother had come to England as an au pair in 1990, had got pregnant with Alicia Mae, and had broken up the Carter marriage within a year. After a messy divorce, Richard Carter had married Matilda Carlquist, and they lived happily ever after. Following a university degree in child psychology, Alicia Mae had decided to carry on the family business of nannying.
‘Just so long as it is nannying, and not breaking up marriages.’
Parish adopted a stern tone. ‘Richards.’
They were sitting at the kitchen table eating the stew Alicia Mae had cooked for them.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but it has to be brought out into the open. I don’t want her thinking you’re available when you’re not.’
Alicia Mae didn’t seem to be offended by the forthright nature of the conversation. ‘I assure you I have no desire to get pregnant, or have an old man for a lover. History will not repeat itself in the Parish house.’
‘Old man! Now see what you’ve done, Richards.’
Alicia Mae smiled. ‘I’m sorry to be blunt, but I have a very handsome boyfriend of my own age.’
‘Good,’ Richards said. ‘Just so long as everybody knows what the rules are. I don’t want any flirting, sexual innuendo, or you walking around the house in skimpy underwear showing off your assets.’
‘All right.’
Once Richards had voiced her concerns, they settled the issues of job description, wages, days off, and sleeping arrangements. It was also agreed that Richards would be Alicia Mae’s boss, not Parish, which suited him just fine.
While Richards went and had a shower and changed her clothes, Parish took Digby for a quick walk.
‘Come on, Digby old fella,’ he said to the dog as they set off along Puck Road. ‘You did good police work last night finding mummy, and because of that she’ll be coming home to us soon.’ Did dogs have the capacity to understand what was said to them? Man’s best friend was right, he thought. Digby was like another child.
They were in the car by half past seven, and walking into Beech ward at King George Hospital by five past eight. There were no doctors available, but Staff Nurse Julie Gillibrand told them that there had been no change in her condition.
‘So, what’s been happening with my mum today?’ Richards said. ‘I mean, you say there’s no change in her condition, but what does that mean exactly? Has the doctor done some tests? Has she been left to rot in her bed all day? How is she eating and drinking? Is anybody talking to her? I won’t be palmed off with a platitude every day. So, when we come tomorrow night, I want a doctor here to tell us how she is in more detail.’
‘I’m sure I can arrange that. In the meantime, let me tell you how your mother is in more detail. Relatives don’t usually want to know specifics.’
‘Well, I do. My mum was a... is a nurse at this hospital in the ICU, so I expect her to get the very best treatment.’
‘Every patient gets the very best treatment.’
‘My mum isn’t every patient.’
The Staff Nurse referred to Angie’s medical folder. ‘Your mother shows no awareness of her surroundings. She doesn’t respond to questions or requests. When she looks at you, she doesn’t see you. She lies, or sits in the same position she is put in without moving. She can’t feed herself, or take in liquids. I’m afraid that at the moment she is unresponsive to all external stimuli. As Dr Wade informed you, she has been sedated in an attempt to give her mind time to repair. You should be prepared for there to be no change in her condition for some time. Each day the nursing staff take care of her physical body. She has a naso-gastric tube for solids and liquids, and a catheter for her urine. We will wash and change her, and move her from the bed to an easy chair. The physiotherapist will exercise her muscles twice a day. Other than that we, like you, wait patiently for a change for the better in her condition.’
‘Thank you, nurse,’ Richards said. ‘That’s what I wanted to know.’
If Angie had been in one of the other wards they might have visited her together, but instead they took turns to sit by her bedside. Parish let Richards go first.
‘I’ll go down to the cafeteria for a coffee,’ he said to her. ‘Come down when you’re ready.’
After twenty-five minutes Richards appeared. Her face was all red and blotchy.
He kissed her on the forehead. ‘I won’t be long.’
In Angie’s room, he sat in the chair and held his wife’s hand. ‘Now listen, I don’t know what that daughter of yours has told you, but we’ve got a nanny called Alicia Mae Carter. She’s Swedish, about twenty-one years old, and I don’t know how long I can resist her womanly charms. You have to hurry back to me to save me from myself. Digby sends his love, and Jack needs a mother not a nanny. No pressure, but I spent a long time on my own, and when I found you I thought my loneliness was at an end. Now, here you are pretending to be ill, and depriving me of my conjugals. I love you Angela Parish, and it’s just not right that we should be apart. So, I expect you to think about that over the next couple of days...’ He reminded her about the honeymoon, the white sands, the lapping clear blue sea, and the deep love they shared. About Mary, and Jack, and about everything good that was waiting for her when she got better...
‘Did you fall asleep?’
‘We had a lot to discuss.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘You mean...?’
‘I was speaking for both of us.’
‘Oh.’
‘Come on, let’s go home.’
‘I hate that I have to leave my mum here.’
He took her gently by the elbow, and guided towards the door. ‘I know. It’s the worst feeling in the whole world.’
Chapter Fourteen
Erin Donnelly slipped off her raincoat and let it fall to the floor. Underneath she wore her sexy French maid disguise, which consisted of a black see-through lace bra with frilly white edges, a tiny nylon see-through skirt with a pretend white apron at the front, and a pair of frilly garters. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, but then it wasn’t meant to.
She had bought it from one of those shops that had no name. The ones where the glass was blacked out and you couldn’t see in, and on the door it had strange opening times. She had travelled to Stevenage, which was far enough away from Hoddesdon not to be found out, found one of those shops, and waited in a doorway opposite. When she saw a man enter, and the door closing slowly, she ran across the road and slipped inside.
‘I’m sorry... members only,’ a man who looked as though he masturbated a lot said.
‘You don’t want a sale then?’
‘It depends what you want.’
‘A sexy outfit.’
‘Do you want to try it on?’
‘Do you want me to try it on?’
The man’s face reddened. ‘Eh... I don’t think... the outfits are over there.’
A dirty 8mm home-made picture played in her head as she decided which outfit to choose. The actress sheds her clothes and puts an outfit on. Men are watching her and masturbating from secret places in the shop, but two are not content to masturbate, they want her to touch her, fill all her orifices...
‘Have you decided which one you would like, Madam?’
‘What do you think?’ she asked holding up the French maid and Sterwardess outfits.
The man licked his lips. ‘I particularly like the French Maid.’
‘I’ll take that one,’ she said. ‘And when I put it on I’ll think of you.’
He turned around quickly and hurried to the till. She had the feeling he’d ejaculated in his trousers.
Now, as well as wearing the tiniest French maid’s outfit she had ever seen, she also wore a long blonde wig. Her
face was painted white like a doll, with bright red lips, and blue teardrops underneath the left eye. No one would be able to recognise her in the film she and Raymond Kowalski were about to star in.
She stripped off his dressing gown and turned him over. As editor, she would delete the parts that didn’t add to the storyline. She positioned him just right, and remembered to adjust the camera on the wall slightly downwards.
They were both eager with anticipation.
Lights, camera, action!
Her performance lasted twenty minutes, and a lot of it was ad lib. She hadn’t planned on having sex with the man who had ruined her father and driven him to suicide, but she wasn’t too concerned that it had happened. It gave the film a certain authenticity, and wasn’t that what they were meant to be doing anyway? She knew about his vasectomy, so hadn’t panicked when he ejaculated inside her. All-in-all she had enjoyed the experience. It would keep her desires at bay until the next time she needed to have sex with a man in public.
She removed the cameras, and the complimentary champagne bottle and glasses, put her overcoat back on, and left him lying on the bed as she slipped out of the room.
Before wiping her electronic presence from everything, taking a shower, and packing everything away, she checked that her film was a masterpiece – it was.
She smiled. The first part of her plan had been a success. It would get rave reviews from the critics. She’d be the talk of the town, be nominated for an Oscar. The movie moguls would be beating down her door with fistfuls of starring roles.
Yes, she could get used to being a movie star.
***
Xena pulled into the station car park and walked up the back stairs to the squad room. It didn’t look as though there was anybody there. Maybe the Buxton bitch had taken the hint and fucked off back to the water bottling factory.
‘DS Blake?’
She spun round. The bitch had crept up behind her like a ninja turtle. ‘Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?’