by Michael Kerr
“It sounds as though you have a vivid recollection of her,” Marci said. “Do you have reason to?”
“Two reasons. But I don’t think that I should speak out of turn.”
“Unless anything criminal is involved, those reasons will be confidential Mr Bradley. I wouldn’t be here asking about Shelley if it wasn’t absolutely essential that we know about her past.”
“Is she dead, or in trouble?” Andrew asked.
“She’s alive and well, but may be in serious trouble.”
Andrew gave it some thought and then closed his eyes for two or three seconds and said, “Very well. I remember checking the classrooms at lunchtime one day, and I heard sounds coming from a storeroom. I opened the door and Shelley and another girl were on the floor, naked and in a clinch.”
“What did you do?” Marci asked.
“I was literally dumbstruck. It was a very provocative scene. I daresay I stood there with my mouth hanging open and my eyes glued to what was in front of me. It’s one of those sights that stay in your mind. Shelley didn’t bat an eyelid. She just smiled up at me and said, ‘Why don’t you join us, Mr Bradley? Just close the door and get undressed’.
“I closed the door, but from the outside. I really didn’t know what to do about the situation. I should have reported what I’d seen, but was embarrassed, and sensible enough to know that Shelley and the other girl would have denied any wrongdoing, or worse, said that I was involved in it.”
“So you did nothing?”
“Correct. Rightly or wrongly I let it go.”
“What was the second reason that you remember Shelley for?”
“The event that resulted in her being expelled, or excluded as they refer to it nowadays. She was in a first floor classroom. The bell sounded at the end of the lesson, and she attacked another girl who was laughing and joking with Ann Westoby, the girl who’d been in the storeroom with her a few months earlier. Shelley pushed the other girl out of an open window. Fortunately she landed in thick rhododendron bushes and suffered only a few scratches and bruising.”
“And you think that Shelley purposely pushed the girl out of the window?”
“Yes. She admitted pushing the girl, but said that there was no intention for her to go through the window. But I saw it happen. It was a calculated, murderous act.”
“Anything else?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since that day. What has she done?”
“I can’t discuss it, Mr Bradley, but very much appreciate what you’ve told me.”
Marci left the school and phoned Matt as she walked across the staff car park to the Mondeo she had signed out that morning.
“Yeah, Marci?” Matt said.
“I just talked to a teacher at Shelley Carmichael’s old school. He remembered her and told me that he’d caught her being naughty with another girl, back when she was fifteen years old―”
“Define naughty.”
“Stark naked and playing with each other in a storeroom.”
“That tells us that she was doing then what she still does now. Her sexual preferences are not the issue.”
“There’s more. A few months later she had what seems to be a fit of jealousy and pushed a girl out of a first floor window at the school. The emphasis being on pushed.”
“What happened?”
“The girl had a relatively soft landing in bushes, but the teacher I got this from witnessed it. He said that it was a premeditated act.”
“So pushing someone off the top of a building or a tube platform would probably be something that came easy to her.”
“She looks good for it.”
“Good job. Get back here and we’ll jack up an operation to take her off guard.”
Matt had the paperwork by lunchtime. He decided to have Shelley Carmichael followed from the agency, rather than confront her at her place of work. It was known that Shelley used her car to commute. Using public transport would involve a daily fifteen minute walk between her cottage and Hanwell railway station, and then a tube from Paddington Station, and the same journey in reverse.
Shelley would have unseen company today, all the way home to her cottage off Church road, which was just a three iron shot from the Brent Valley golf Club.
It was four-thirty when Rhonda came through from her office into the reception and told Shelley to call it a day. She was more cheerful than she had been of late.
“Have you won the Lotto?” Shelley asked.
“Nothing that rewarding,” Rhonda said, leaning over the desk to kiss Shelley on the lips, to part them with her tongue and jab it provocatively into her mouth, before withdrawing it and sighing with pleasure. “We have a prospective new client coming by tomorrow, though, and you’ll never guess who it is.”
Shelley pretended to be eager to know, but already knew, having listened in on the call that Rhonda had taken thirty minutes earlier.
“Hugh Grant? Matt Damon? George Clooney?” Shelley said. “Tell me.”
“Ricky Austin,”
“The guy out of that new Bond-style movie?”
Rhonda nodded. “He’s not happy with the agency he’s with in the UK, and said a friend in the business had mentioned me to him.”
“That’s terrific,” Shelley said. “I’ll act suitably impressed and flirt with him when he arrives.”
“Don’t overdo it, or he may come on to you. He has a reputation for screwing anything with a vagina and a pulse.”
“Well if my making the sacrifice would help make up his mind to sign on the dotted line, I’d have to just lay back and think of England.”
“If I thought that fucking him would clinch the deal I’d do it myself, babe.”
Shelley scowled. “If it was a woman we were discussing I’d be very, very jealous.”
They laughed, but there was a mild tension to it.
“Come here,” Rhonda said. She hugged Shelley. “Will you come to the house this evening? I need you.”
“I need you, too,” Shelley said. “I’ll be there about nine.”
The traffic was heavy. Shelley arrived home at six p.m. and parked at the kerb. She wanted to have a hot shower and a large vodka and tonic. As she unlocked the front door a car pulled up in front of her Fiesta, and as she paused to look at who was in it another car appeared and stopped just inches from the Fiesta’s boot. She knew at once that it was the police, but had no idea why they would be calling at her cottage.
“Ms Carmichael,” Matt said as he quickly exited the car and walked briskly to the gate, opened it and approached her. “We need to talk to you.”
Shelley said nothing. Just watched as three more officers joined the detective inspector that she knew was called Barnes. One of the officers was the dark-haired female that had been with him when he had called at the agency to interview Rhonda.
“Wow! High drama,” Shelley said and smiled at Matt. “What brings you lot out to the burbs? Was I speeding?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Matt said. “We just have a few questions to ask you.”
“So ask away,” Shelley said as she withdrew her key from the lock, but made no attempt to open the door.
“Inside would be better,” Matt said as he took three steps forward to stop just a couple of feet in front of her.
“Who exactly would it be better for?” Shelley asked, unfazed by his nearness, even though she considered it very close to invading what she determined to be her personal space.
“It’s about your employer, Rhonda Gould, and the murders of the three people that worked for New Segue Studios.”
Shelley almost said that she had absolutely nothing to say to them regarding Rhonda. But curiosity won out. They obviously suspected Rhonda of being involved, and hoped that she could furnish them with some information that would help their inquiry.
“Very well, Inspector, come on in,” she said and turned, opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
Matt and Marci followed her in. Pete stayed outside in the sm
all front garden, and Phil walked around the side of the cottage to watch the back door.
Shelley slipped out of her Barbour tweed wool coat and draped it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.
The country style kitchen/diner was large and furnished with oak units and black granite counter tops. The table at the far end had four chairs around it.
“Take a seat,” Shelley said, “I’ll put the kettle on, I’m parched. Would you both like tea or coffee?”
Matt and Marci declined.
“So what exactly do you want to know about my employer?” Shelley asked.
“Not a lot,” Matt said. “You’re the star attraction now. We intend to search your house.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Shelley said. “You have no right to do that. You inveigled your way in here under false pretences. I want you both to leave, now.”
Matt took the warrants giving him the authority to search her house and car out of his inside jacket pocket and put them on the tabletop. “There’s my right to do it, Ms Carmichael.”
Shelley didn’t move. She just stood transfixed and stared at Matt with unadulterated hatred. “What exactly are you expecting to find?” she asked after a long pause.
“I’m hoping that we’ll find a quilted red parka, a baseball cap, and even a false moustache. And be aware that if any or all of those items are here, the search team that are on the way will find them.”
Shelley shook her head, smiled and said, “You really think that I had anything to do with the murders?”
“I thought it was a possibility, and then we found out that you were expelled from school for pushing another pupil out of a first floor window. That convinced me that you’re the killer.”
Shelley acted without hesitation. The water in the kettle had almost come to the boil. She grasped it by the handle and threw it at Marci in one explosive move. The lid was forced open by the weight of water inside, and at least half the contents flew out.
Even as Marci jerked to her right, the hot water hit the side of her neck and soaked into the material of her jacket, the blouse beneath it, and through to scald her shoulder and left breast.
As Matt leapt to his feet, Shelley lifted a circular oak breadboard from the same counter that the kettle had stood on and threw it Frisbee-fashion at him, full force. He raised his left arm defensively and the edge of the thick board thudded into his forearm, making him gasp with pain as it connected with where he had been bitten by the dog.
Shelley was moving forward as she threw the board. Within three seconds she had reached the back door, unlocked and thrown it open and was heading through it.
Phil ran towards her and shouted “Stop, armed police,” even though he had not yet drawn his gun.
Shelley hesitated, spun sideways and straight-kicked the cop in the groin, to turn back and run for the six-foot-high fence at the end of the lawn, grasp the top of it and go over it in an instant, fuelled by adrenaline.
Phil was unable to pursue her. He was on his knees and the pain was spreading like a bushfire through his balls and the pit of his stomach.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked Marci, who was tugging her jacket off.
“Yes, go and get the bitch.”
Tom had returned Matt’s gun to him, for which he had duly signed two forms that were both in triplicate. He drew his weapon, pulled open the kitchen door, which had rebounded into its frame, to see Phil on his knees, almost purple in the face.
Phil took one hand away from the seat of the pain and pointed at the fence. “She went over that like a fucking steeplechaser over a jump in the Grand National,” he said.
Matt holstered his gun and ran for the fence, to be a little surprised at managing to climb over it without a problem.
Beyond the fence was a small copse of mainly conifer trees. He could hear the noise of someone running; heavy footfalls on a bed of twigs and cones and pine needles. It was dark, but he followed the sound.
Shelley reached a waist-high galvanised wire stock fence and vaulted over it into long grass that stretched along the side of the wide eighth fairway of the golf course. She hesitated, looked left and right, and decided to run straight across it to where more trees would afford her cover. But she could hear someone approaching from behind, and just knew that it would be Barnes. She had two choices, hunker down and wait to take him by surprise, or find somewhere better to hide until he went by or returned to the cottage. They would no doubt set up roadblocks in the area, but by the time that happened she would be long gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MARCI staggered out of the kitchen door as Phil regained his feet.
“Okay?” she asked him.
He nodded, then leaned forward with his hands on his knees and threw up.
Going back into the kitchen, Marci was met by Pete, who had heard the noise and entered the cottage. He had drawn his semiautomatic pistol and was holding it two-handed. He lowered it when he saw Marci.
“What happened?” Pete said.
“She did a runner. Matt’s chasing her. You’d better go after them. I’ll call for backup.”
Pete charged out of the kitchen door. Phil once more pointed toward the fence and Pete took off, finding it more of a struggle to get over than the woman or Matt had, due to not being as tall as either of them.
After calling it in, and now with her jacket, blouse and bra off, Marci went to the sink, turned on the cold water tap and used a dishcloth to repeatedly saturate and apply to the burns on her neck, shoulder and the side of her breast. After a couple of minutes she went across to a mirror on the opposite wall and studied the damage. The skin was lobster red, but she thought that she would be fine. The water in the kettle had not been boiling.
Phil came into the kitchen and almost forgot his sore balls and aching stomach as Marci turned to him, naked from the waist up. He couldn’t help but stare.
“What’s the matter, Phil?” Marci said. “Don’t tell me that you’ve never seen a pair of tits before.”
Phil actually blushed and looked away.
Matt reached the stock fence, climbed over it and looked for a trail in the long grass. It was too dark to make one out. He walked out into it and came to the fairway, to stop and look across it and both ways along its length. There was no sign of movement. He supposed that she had run straight across it, but couldn’t be sure. He slowly moved out towards the middle and was about to step around a deep bunker when Shelley rose up from its rim and swung a sand rake at him, striking him hard across the shins and bringing him down. He rolled into the sand next to her and avoided a second blow that would have put the rusted tines of the rake through the side of his head.
The momentum of the swing took Shelley sideways, and although she was quick to recover, Matt was faster. He lunged forward and snapped his head forward to butt her in the face. She fell back dazed, but came up off the damp sand as if it was electrified, seemingly unstoppable like Michael Myers in the Halloween movies.
There was something very wrong to Matt about hitting a woman; it went against his principals. He had always believed ‒ and still did ‒ that there was no excuse for it. The problem being, this particular woman was strong, desperate and in a murderous state of mind.
Shelley grasped the butt of his gun and attempted to wrench it from the shoulder holster, and so he hit her on the chin with a slicing, fisted right hand that knocked her head sideways, causing blood from her now broken nose to fly from her nostrils, and a cataract of it to spurt from her mouth, due to her teeth coming together with enough force to sever the tip of her tongue.
Matt felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The woman should have been unconscious, or at least incapable of further action, but instead she turned back to him on all fours and actually grinned.
“You’ll have to kill me, Barnes,” Shelley slurred almost inaudibly in a now lisping whisper that was laden with malevolence.
He had no choice as she crawled towards him. He drew his gun
, and holding nothing back, swiped her across the temple with the barrel. Her eyes rolled back and she dropped face down in the sand, and would have suffocated had he not grasped her by the hair and twisted her head to the side.
Slipping the gun back in the holster, Matt quickly handcuffed Shelley’s wrists behind her back, moved away from her and made a call on his mobile.
Pete was already at the edge of the fairway, but couldn’t see Matt or the woman. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked at the caller ID on the screen and answered it.
“Where the hell are you?” Pete said.
“In a bunker,” Matt said, and stood up and waved to where he could see Pete as hardly more than a silhouette.
Pete saw him and jogged across. Looked down at the cuffed, dazed woman, grinned and said, “Bondage in a bunker, boss? You have a side to you I haven’t seen before.”
“Pillock,” Matt said, but smiled. “Are Marci and Phil okay?”
“Marci has burns, and I think Phil got kicked in the nuts.”
Shelley groaned and came to. She tried to reach up to her head, realised that she was handcuffed and so just lay there like a log.
“Why did you murder them?” Matt asked as Pete stepped into the bunker and hauled Shelley up to her feet.
Shelley spat blood in his face, but said nothing.
“Did you do this for Rhonda?” Matt said as he wiped his cheek.
No reply.
“Let’s take her back to the cottage,” Matt said to Pete. “She isn’t going to tell us jack shit.”
Marci was wearing Shelley’s lined Barbour coat when they re-entered the kitchen. Matt had called for an ambulance, and the search team had arrived. He hoped that they would find the parka, because without it or something incriminating that would link Shelley to the murders, they would have nothing. He didn’t foresee the woman making a confession. They would have to work to make a case against her.
“That was police brutality, you fascist, chauvinistic, homophobic pig,” Shelley said to Matt with difficulty as blood continued to pour from her nose and mouth.