by Bill Kitson
Pearce explained in more detail. ‘There are photos and videos of Georgina, along with another couple of women in some cases, having it off with a succession of men. Most of them look to be around her age, but some of them are considerably younger.’
‘How did she get them to agree to being filmed in such compromising positions, I wonder?’ Nash speculated.
‘From what we could judge by camera angles and so forth, we don’t think they were given any choice in the matter. We reckon they were unaware that they were being made into porn stars.’
‘Could it be that Georgina was using the images to blackmail her lovers?’ Clara asked.
‘We did wonder about that,’ Pearce acknowledged, ‘so we went back over her emails to see if we could spot anything that might suggest extortion, or “sextortion” as the media refer to it these days, but if she was blackmailing anyone, it wasn’t apparent from her laptop.’
‘Did you recognize any of the men?’ Nash asked. ‘Their faces, I mean,’ he added hastily, seeing Clara about to speak.
‘We did think a couple of them looked vaguely familiar,’ Lisa agreed, ‘but bear in mind that, for the most part, their faces weren’t the part that the camera was concentrating on. We thought you and Clara ought to look through them to see if you can spot anyone we might have missed.’
‘It would be all right for Clara to look, but I’m far too young and innocent to be exposed to such stuff,’ Nash told them.
It was several minutes before Clara’s laughter died down sufficiently for Nash to say, ‘Viv, will you nip across the road to the shop and buy a bag of popcorn?’
* * *
That evening at the leisure centre, Nash stepped out of the shower and towelled himself dry. After dressing, he repacked his holdall and walked out of the changing room. As he headed towards the entrance he glanced at his watch. There would still be time to go back to the office and go through the paperwork on his desk. To be on the safe side, he checked his mobile, and was relieved to see there were no messages. This killer was beginning to get to him. He almost dreaded answering the phone, in case another victim had been found.
‘Mr Nash, could I have a word before you go?’
Nash turned. ‘Yes, Toni, what is it?’ He thought he knew, and was merely playing for time.
‘There have been six sessions since you signed on, and of those you’ve only attended four, and you were late for three of them. I’ve had to keep everyone waiting until you arrive, which is hardly fair. They’ve paid for two hours, not to be kept hanging around until you see fit to show up. Unless you can promise me you’ll arrive on time in future, I may have to consider cancelling your booking.’
Nash looked contrite. ‘I’m really sorry about this, but it’s the constraints of my job, I’m afraid. When I signed up, I didn’t know the pressure I was going to be under. I don’t suppose you do evening sessions, do you? If that was the case, I could transfer to one of them.’
Toni looked at him for a long time before replying. ‘No, we don’t. What’s so special about your job, anyway?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
Toni took in the grey suit, the white shirt, and blue tie. ‘A police officer? Are you a detective?’
Nash saw her expression change, become wary. It was a reaction he had seen many a time. Even people with no reason to fear the police become awkward when they discover they are in the presence of an officer.
Nash nodded, and as he did, Toni realized the significance of his remark about pressure. ‘Are you involved in those cases in the paper? The suspicious deaths?’
‘You could say that.’ Nash smiled slightly. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation, which is why my leisure time has to come a remote second at present.’
‘I didn’t appreciate that. Look, I’m sorry this hasn’t worked out. I might be able to arrange some one-to-one sessions, but I don’t much like being alone in this building, even with the doors locked. Let me come back to you when I’ve checked my diary. I’ve an idea that might work.’
Chapter Eight
The chairman of Helm Social Club looked around the table. ‘If we book this group, they’re certain to be expensive.’ His fellow committee members nodded agreement. ‘The cost of refurbishing the function room is already over budget, even with the brewery loan. I agree we must have a grand reopening night, but I don’t see how we can fork out for a top-class local band as well as paying out for a good comedian. Funds just won’t stretch to it, even with a cover charge.’
‘We’ve got to do something special, though,’ the entertainments secretary pointed out. ‘The members have been very patient while the room’s been out of action, especially on bingo nights.’
‘How much is this group going to cost?’
The chairman looked at the member who’d asked the question and named a figure. He saw the woman wince. ‘Hell’s Bells!’ the man on her left said. ‘Who is it, The Rolling Stones?’
‘If we do decide to go for them, we’ll have to cut back on the comedian’s fee,’ the treasurer chipped in. ‘Who do we know that’ll work cheap?’
There was a long silence, before one of the committee said diffidently, ‘What about Dickie Donut?’
There was a chorus of groans from around the table, but the member persisted. ‘Hang on, I saw him in Netherdale a couple of months ago. He was quite good. He’s got a load of new material, far better than the old routine.’
When they put it to the vote, the result was very close, but the committee agreed the plan. The entertainments secretary was to book the group immediately, with Dickie Donut being asked to do a couple of twenty-minute comedy slots, plus acting as compère for the evening. With luck, the secretary hoped he’d be able to persuade the comedian to act as bingo caller too.
‘That’s settled, then.’ The chairman looked relieved. ‘All we need to do now is sort out some advertising. If we aim for a fortnight on Friday; that should give us plenty of time to get it in the Gazette and the free paper. We’ll distribute some flyers and print off posters for the shops in town.’
* * *
The sign over the showroom read “Graham Motors, Bishopton’s Best Bet for New & Used Cars”. Although the wording was entirely accurate, the fact that it was the only car dealership in the town rather diluted the claim.
Richard Graham, the proprietor, otherwise known as Dickie Donut, wasn’t thinking about selling cars. Trade was quiet, desperately so, and the only reason Graham Motors hadn’t gone the way of so many similar concerns was that there was no mortgage on the business premises or Richard’s own home, and that the company operated without an overdraft.
Nevertheless, the way the year had started as far as car sales went — or didn’t — Richard was more than grateful for the additional income provided by his other persona. Some weeks, the only money he had to meet his personal expenses was that provided by work as a local comedian. Although by no means regular, the work had brought enough bookings to tide him over. With no illusions of national fame and fortune, Dickie kept his prices low enough to attract organizers of events at smaller venues, thus giving him a wider scope. He added to this by avoiding the use of blue material, enabling him to be booked by those wanting entertainment at family-oriented events, secure in the knowledge that nobody would be offended.
Recently, his reputation, which had been in decline, had undergone a dramatic transformation. He had discarded a large part of the material that was no longer standing the test of time. Paying for the services of a young, up-and-coming scriptwriter had enabled him to put some sharp, social observational comedy into the routine. Word soon got around, and Dickie was becoming sought after in a way that he hadn’t experienced for several years.
Dickie was busy running through the material he would use at the reopening of Helm Social Club. He had several new pieces the scriptwriter had sent him only the previous day. These, a wry take on modern life, would slot into the act really well. Dickie knew there would be members of the audienc
e who would themselves be booking acts for their own venues in the coming months. Impress them, and he would be able to get even more work, some of it on a regular basis.
He was so engrossed he didn’t see the potential punter for some time. He looked up to see the customer walking across the forecourt, staring at each of the cars parked in echelon. Richard liked to challenge himself to a little guessing game on such occasions, by trying to work out which of his vehicles the customer would express an interest in.
He narrowed his choice almost immediately to three, the little Renault, the Mini, and the Corsa. In the event, when the customer entered the showroom and began asking questions, it was about the SUV, the largest car on the lot. As he answered the punter’s questions, Richard reflected that there was always the capacity for surprise in this job.
Nor, as it turned out, was this the only surprise the customer had in store for him.
* * *
It was the grand opening night.
‘Right, we’re all set up. The group’s just landed and they’re ready to start unloading their gear. I’ve had to tell the lads on the door to start letting people in, because the queue is right across the path and we need to clear it so the van driver can reverse up to the door by the stage. Some of their equipment is far too heavy to go lugging it the length of the hall.’
‘Do you want me to go find the steward and ask him to open the curtains?’
‘Better leave it a few minutes. He was having trouble changing a barrel when I went in a bit ago, and you know how stressed he gets if he’s got too much on his plate at once. Besides, if we open the curtains, the audience will watch the group setting up instead of going to the bar and buying ale.’
Ten minutes later, the queue had all but gone, the bulk of the seats in the newly renovated function room had been taken, and the bar was doing brisk business. Having supervised the group’s driver manoeuvring the van up the narrow path, the entertainments secretary hurried through to open the door from the inside. As he crossed the function room, he signalled to the club chairman to ask the steward to open the stage curtain.
He had opened the door and was watching some of the musicians remove their instruments from the back of the van when he heard the scream. He didn’t react to the first scream. It was only when several other voices joined in that he darted inside to see what had caused the medley.
Without exception, every member of the audience was staring towards the stage, their faces registering shock, disbelief, and horror. He turned, took in the neatly arranged tableau, and stopped dead, rooted to the spot by jaw-dropping incredulity.
Dickie Donut’s final appearance was as dramatic as he could possibly have hoped. Although he was in a standing position behind the microphone, it was obvious by the collection of wires attached to various parts of his body that they were his sole means of support. And although his gaze was directly forward, he was staring beyond the audience in the body of the hall, beyond the bar where the steward and his bar staff had ceased serving drinks, staring beyond the entrance to the snooker room beyond, staring into eternity.
It was by no means the first time Dickie Donut had died on stage, but it would most definitely be the last.
* * *
Although Mironova understood Nash was not contactable, she needed to speak to him urgently on his return. Knowing he was collecting Daniel to bring him back from his holiday stopped her phoning Nash’s mobile, or leaving a voicemail on it. Instead she gritted her teeth and waited for him to pick up the message she had left on his home answering machine.
It was midway through Sunday evening before he responded.
‘Sorry to disturb your time off, Mike, but it’s been a hell of a bad weekend.’
‘Your message said there’d been another murder? I take it our friend’s struck again?’
‘He certainly has, and in the most dramatic way imaginable. This time the killer went public, big style. Have you heard of Dickie Donut?’
‘Who or what the hell is Dickie Donut? Some new American diner?’
Despite her obvious stress, there was laughter in Clara’s voice as she replied, ‘Dickie Donut, real name Richard Graham. He is, or rather was, a well-known local comedian. He was booked to appear at Helm Social Club’s grand reopening on Friday night. The function room was the last part of the club to have undergone a facelift and the refurbishment meant that it had been closed for a couple of months. The committee decided to hold a special event as a way of thanking their members and drawing in the public to put some money in the coffers.’
‘That’s right; I remember reading a bit about it in the paper. Hadn’t they booked a well-known group to play the gig?’
‘Yes, but Dickie was the support act. The plan was for him to compère the evening, as well as appearing. Well, he appeared all right, and it was a showstopper, but hardly as either he, or the organizers, intended. The club officials had got all the audience into the room and they opened the stage curtains so the public could watch the group setting up. That was when they found Dickie; to all intents and purposes standing in front of the microphone, centre stage, in his full theatrical gear, even down to his makeup. Except that he wasn’t standing there. He’d been dead for quite some time. He’d been posed.’
‘How did the killer get him to stay upright this time?’
‘They wired him, literally, like a marionette. They’d screwed hooks into the ceiling and the wings, and attached wires from them to his wrists and under his armpits. They’d also shoved a microphone stand up his back, inside his jacket.’
‘That must have taken an age to do.’
‘I suppose so, but there were ladders from the building work still on site and readily available. I got the call on my way home, so I was there within minutes. The place was a right bloody shambles. Thank God it’s an adult venue. Most of the women in the audience were in hysterics. The committee members seemed to take it as a personal insult, and Jackie insisted we take statements from everyone in the building. I suppose she was right, but it took us until midnight before we finished. By that time we were lucky there wasn’t a riot, because she’d also insisted they close the bar. They were even less happy when she told them it was a crime scene and the place would be closed indefinitely until Forensics have finished.’
‘I’ll phone her next; she left a message for me.’
‘Apparently, the chief’s back and has scheduled a meeting for first thing, to review all three cases.’
‘Do you need anything more from me tonight?’
‘Not really, Mike. The main reason was to bring you up-to-date on what’s happened.’
‘Was the latest victim, Dickie What’s-his-face, blindfolded?’
‘Dickie Donut? No, not blindfolded. I was going to wait until the morning to tell you what they did to him. I didn’t think you’d want to hear it tonight.’
‘Go on, I’m not squeamish, and Daniel’s out of earshot in bed.’
‘It was when Mexican Pete checked him over at the scene that he discovered it. Mike, his tongue — they removed his tongue.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, the horror of what she was telling him apparent.
‘Bloody hell! This killer gets worse! What about other injuries?’
Clara knew exactly what Nash was referring to. ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘He had the identical wounds to those suffered by Whisper Maitland and Georgina Drake.’
‘This killer is a grotesque sadist. The other thing that worries me is that these murders are getting more frequent.’
‘That thought occurred to me. Do you think there’s any significance in that? The rate of increase is alarming.’
‘It’s supposed to be classic serial killer tactics. Anyway, that’s enough for tonight. You sound tired out and stressed to the hilt. Only natural, with what’s happened. Or is that all there is to it?’
‘No, Mike. David’s gone back overseas; he’s been recalled — yet again!’
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry, Clara, I thought that was al
l over with after he was injured on his last mission. Wasn’t he supposed to stay in England now?’
‘I hoped so, but with his specialist skills I suppose he’ll always be in demand. His commanding officer persuaded him to do one last job. The problem is it’s so secret that, as usual, I’ve no idea where he is.’
‘That’s the army for you. Have you eaten?’
‘No, I was just going to grab a pizza.’
‘Take my advice. Have the pizza and then run a hot bath. While it’s filling grab yourself a large glass of wine, or perhaps, in your case, I should say whisky? Chill out and try not to worry. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
As she put the phone down, Clara was close to tears.
* * *
The following morning, Chief Constable Gloria O’Donnell, known to all throughout the force as God — because of her initials, not her attitude — opened the meeting. ‘I’ve read the reports of the first two deaths; now let’s turn our attention to this latest crime. Tell me what you know about this comedian chap.’
Clara began to speak, clearly anxious to get her bit in first. ‘The dead man’s stage name was Dickie Donut. In real life, he was Richard Graham. Apart from his stage work, Graham owned a used car dealership in Bishopton. He’d been on the way out as a comedian. Apparently his material was outdated. However, recently things started to improve. His showroom was closed last week, but that’s not unusual if he’s working elsewhere.’
‘Has Professor Ramirez reported yet?’
‘Yes, he emailed this morning. Everything was the same as the other victims; his heart was removed. The exception was that Graham’s tongue was cut out, after he died, apparently.’
‘Did forensic find any clues at the scene?’
‘Nothing more than the previous ones.’