DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “We all get days like that, and this case is a bad one.”

  “This isn’t just one of those days, Grace. I can’t do this anymore. I feel like my whole bloody life is going down the pan. I hate the job. I’m sick and tired of how it keeps kicking me in the guts.”

  “Tell Greco. Tell him how you feel. Tell him why you’re not happy with the job.”

  “If I do that, he’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

  “No he won’t, Speedy. Greco’s not like that. He’ll try to help. He’s a good guy, he’ll understand.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “He does have a different side, Speedy. He’s not all ‘intense detective,’ you know. You should try and see what is beneath the surface. Part of it’s his uneasiness with people.” She paused. “C’mon, Speedy, you know what he’s like. He doesn’t do emotions very well. But under all that stiff upper lip stuff is a compassionate family man. I know he will understand.”

  “I reckon you’re talking about a different bloke.”

  “At least think about it. What harm can it do? Right now you’re down and not thinking straight. You’ve got to speak to someone. Your job’s important. There’s nothing else for you out there.”

  “Don’t you think I haven’t realised that? It scares the hell out of me.”

  “Come on, I’ll help you do this street. It won’t take long with the both of us.”

  “Thanks, Grace. But talk to Greco? I don’t fancy that.”

  “You’re the police.” A middle-aged man greeted them at the next door. He was drying his thinning hair with a towel. “Disturbed my beauty sleep the other night you lot did. So what d’you want now?”

  “There’s been a murder in one of these houses,” Speedy said, showing his badge. “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  The man sighed. “This is a quiet street as a rule, but there’s been a lot of coming and going lately. Down there at number eight, that’s where you mean, isn’t it? The bloke next door told me the news earlier this morning.”

  Speedy nodded.

  “A man in a dark car was there over the weekend. He had ladders and wore dark overalls. I presumed he was giving the place a coat of paint.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “No more than forty, tall and he wore a hat, a woollen thing that covered his hair. Darkish glasses.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “At least an afternoon. Sunday, I think it was. He was a noisy bugger, I know that. He had his radio on dead loud the whole time.”

  “He had a key?”

  “He must have done. The thing is, I saw the car again last night. It was turning out of the street and making for the town centre. I work odd hours and he passed me as I was coming home. I remember because he knocked my wing mirror and didn’t stop.”

  “What sort of car was it?”

  “A Ford Focus, an older one, dark blue. I know the colour because it left paint scrapings on my car.”

  “You’ll need to give a statement, and our forensic people will take a look at your car. Is that okay?”

  The man nodded. One of the uniformed officers followed him into the house.

  “That was good information. Now we should speak to the woman witness, the neighbour on Archibald Street,” said Grace.

  “What are you hoping for?”

  “She may be able to confirm what he’s just told us.”

  “I tried earlier but got no reply,” said Speedy.

  “We’ll try again and if we still get nowhere, then we’ll come back.”

  “Everything’s dead easy for you, isn’t it?”

  “No, Speedy, it’s not. This job is all about persistence and bloody hard work.”

  He had no answer to this. “Okay, we’ll go back and join Craig. We’ve covered this street now, anyway,” he said.

  When they returned, Craig Merrick had managed to raise the woman’s husband.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” he said. “Neither me nor the wife has gone to work today. No way could I go. I’m still shaking, and I heard there was another one the day before.”

  “You told an officer that your wife saw someone leave out the back way,” said Speedy.

  “Yes. I did.” A woman appeared in the hallway. “Creeping about, he was. He had on dark clothing and a woollen hat. I didn’t see his face, it was too dark.”

  “Was he tall, short, overweight?” Speedy asked.

  “Tallish, although not as tall as Bert here,” she said.

  “How long has the house been empty?” Grace asked.

  “About two months. When the dementia got worse, old Mrs Johnson couldn’t cope anymore. She never had kids so she went into the care home.”

  “The one by the park?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Grace looked at Speedy. The previous occupants of both houses were living in the same care home. Could it be another piece of the puzzle? But how did it fit? Craig had been right. He wasn’t invisible, people had seen him. Their descriptions tallied. The problem was, no one had recognised him. So he wasn’t from these streets.

  * * *

  Greco had parked outside the Proctor house. He sat in the car, staring at the stone walls and imposing double door front entrance. There were two cars on the driveway, and both were large and expensive. He sighed. He couldn’t put this off any longer. It would be hard, but he had to get it done.

  He was halfway up the drive when a woman appeared at the front door.

  “Is it about Jenna?”

  She was dressed for work in a suit and high heels, and looked to be in her mid-forties.

  “The girl’s got no thought for anyone but herself. I told her to tell me if she was staying out. I was up and down the road last night looking for her. She has me worried sick when she does this.”

  “Mrs Proctor?”

  She blinked, and backed away from him slightly.

  “I’m DI Greco from Oldston CID. Can we talk?”

  She gave him a nervous smile and led the way inside.

  “My husband has already left for work. She’s not got herself locked up or something, has she? I’ve got a meeting in half an hour. Stupid girl.”

  “Are you here on your own?”

  “Jonathan!” she called.

  Seconds later a tall, skinny youth with long hair appeared at the end of the hallway. “It’s Jenna. She’s been up to her tricks again,” she said.

  “Mrs Proctor, perhaps you should sit down.”

  She began to shake. She gazed at Greco, as he tried to formulate his words.

  “Tell me. Just tell me. What can she have done to bring you here?”

  “I’m afraid Jenna has been killed, Mrs Proctor. I’m very sorry.”

  The youth put an arm around her shoulder and led her down the hall to the lounge. She wailed and clung to him. Greco followed.

  Jonathan Proctor helped his mother sit down. He turned to look at Greco. “You’re wrong, I know. This is some sick joke. She’s getting back at Mum for being such a cow to her last night.”

  “Jenna has been murdered,” Greco said. “We found her body this morning, in a house in Oldston.”

  “Murdered . . ?” Jenna’s mother said. “Why? Why my Jenna?”

  “We don’t know,” said Greco. “Do you know where she went last night?”

  “The Rave club in town,” Jonathan replied. “She loved the place. So did half her school year. Ask them.”

  “Oh, I will,” Greco said. “When did you last hear from her?”

  “We spoke on the phone, late last night,” said Mrs Proctor. “It must have been about midnight. She was on her way home — a taxi, she said. We have an arrangement. Whenever she gets a taxi at night she’s supposed to text me a photo of the licence plate. But last night she didn’t. I waited. I’d already been out looking for her. When she didn’t text, I got annoyed. On weekdays she’s allowed out until eleven and no later. We had words and Jenna lost her temper. I presumed she
’d gone home with one of her friends.”

  “I’m going to arrange for a female officer to come and look after you,” said Greco. “She’ll keep you informed of progress. Are you okay with that?”

  Her eyes met his. “Murdered? I don’t understand. Why my Jenna? What’s she ever done to deserve that?”

  “She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mrs Proctor.” Greco paused. “Are you up to making a formal identification?”

  “Yes.” She sat up straight then, and took hold of her son’s hand. “You’ll come with me, won’t you, Jonathan? We can say goodbye.”

  “I’d also like an up-to-date photo of her, please.”

  She went over to the window and took one from a frame on the sill. It showed a teenager with blonde hair and a pretty smile. She looked carefree, happy.

  Back in his car, Greco rang Grace and told her about the girls and the mix-up over their identity. “Would you pass the information on to the Duggan? Did you get anything?”

  “A little. A man, a stranger, was seen on both streets over the weekend. Two witnesses gave the same general description and he drives a Ford Focus. Also the previous occupants of both the houses are now in the Park House care home. There could be something in that.”

  “Would you ring them? See what they can add — and well done. We’ll go through it when all the team are back. I’m making my way into town to visit the Rave club. Would you ask Speedy to join me there? And would you dig out a young man called Jack Howarth? This is his address. Ask him to come in and have a word with us.”

  * * *

  It was mid-morning by now and Oldston was busy. The traffic on the ring road leading into town was building up. As Greco drove, he spotted an advertising hoarding for the current issue of the Herald. It read: ‘Police Haven’t a Clue.’ Perhaps it was time to speak to them.

  The Rave was in part of a disused warehouse just outside the town centre. In daylight it looked unprepossessing, a large square hulk of crumbling red brick with a flat roof. No doubt the entrance looked more impressive in darkness. It had multi-coloured lights strung around it. There were neon signs, and gaudy posters along the wall advertised forthcoming gigs.

  Greco banged on the doors. There was no response. The place was locked up tight.

  “I bet they don’t roll in until after lunch. They don’t close until the small hours, remember,” said Speedy, walking over to join him.

  “There must be someone here, even if it’s just to clean up from the night before,” said Greco.

  “I’ll try round the back.”

  Minutes later Speedy opened the doors and let Greco in. “Cleaning woman. She says the boss will be here shortly.”

  Greco walked into a huge chasm of a room. There were no windows and few seats.

  “Where do they drink?”

  “The bar is in the far corner. See the tall tables over there? They stand around them. There are booths for people to sit in but you probably have to reserve them,” said Speedy.

  The booths consisted of heavily worn fake-leather sofas in semi-circles, with metal tables in the centre.

  “The kids aren’t bothered what the place looks like. They come here to dance and listen to the music. They chat and they drink. No one sits down much. This isn’t a pub, sir.”

  The floor was concrete and sticky with spilt drinks. “This place should be condemned. It’s not fit to allow the public in,” said Greco, looking at them dubiously.

  “Once the lights are down low and the smoke machine gets going, no one notices the difference. You must have been young once?” Speedy smirked. “Don’t you remember what it was like?”

  Greco shuddered. “I would never have paid good money to come to a dump like this.”

  “It’s only a fiver on the door, but the drinks are top whack.”

  “Age range?”

  “Seventeen to twenty, no older. By the time they reach twenty they’ve got more sense.”

  A man came up behind them. He was heavily built and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a leather jacket. “Joss Taylor. I’m the manager. I also double as a bouncer on week nights.”

  Greco showed him his badge. “So you were on the door last night?”

  The man looked puzzled. “What’s going on? The licence and everything is in order. We don’t get much trouble in here. There’s no drug-taking or dealing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Greco let this pass. He showed Taylor the picture of Jenna Proctor. “We’re interested in this girl. She was here last night and left early, about eleven thirty or twelve.”

  Joss Taylor studied the photo for a few seconds. “Yes, I know her. Right little madam. Well, we operate a dress code here, Inspector.”

  Greco’s eyes widened. A dress code? In this dive!

  “We like the males to wear shirts, and the girls should be in dresses, not jeans. That sort of thing. We also like the girls to keep their shoes on. This one was always kicking hers off. I asked her nicely, gave her ample warning, but then she started with the abuse. That’s one foul-mouthed young lady when she gets going.”

  “And she got abusive last night, so you threw her out?”

  “Had no choice. She was sick too, all over the floor over there. Too much vodka and no food.”

  “What happened then?”

  “She got a taxi, I think. She stumbled about a bit, finally made it to the door, threw up again and then some bloke went to her rescue. I left her to it.”

  “This bloke. Did you get a look at him?” Speedy asked.

  Joss Taylor shrugged. “Didn’t take much notice. I was glad to be rid of the stupid cow.”

  “I suggest you start to think hard about the details, Mr Taylor. Jenna Proctor was found murdered this morning.”

  Speedy’s phone rang and he walked away to take the call.

  “I only caught a glimpse. I was more interested in getting her out of here. He was a tall bloke, wearing one of those woolly hats. I thought that was odd because it’s quite warm now. The car was dark,” he added. “But that’s about it. I’m sorry. We were busy, and every hand is needed to run this place.”

  “Sir, Grace’s been on. There’s been a development and she thinks we should go back to the station,” Speedy interrupted.

  The two detectives went outside. Greco looked around but there was no CCTV. “A dark car around midnight? We could check the cameras on the main streets. Archibald Street is on the other side of town.”

  “What’s the betting he avoided them all?” said Speedy.

  “It’s got to be worth a try though. What’s the emergency?”

  “Something about a letter,” Speedy said.

  Chapter 8

  “This has forced our hand.”

  DCI Green waved an envelope at Greco. “I’ve called a press conference for five. I thought you and DS Quickenden, plus myself.”

  “He sent that to the press, and nothing to us?”

  “Yes, and to Laycock of the Herald of all people. This maniac has outlined our shortcomings in glorious detail to that pain in the arse.” He handed Greco a copy of the letter. “This is what Laycock received.”

  The writer called the investigating officers incompetent fools. He said they would never catch him, and that his reign of terror was only just beginning. He also mentioned both girls by name, although the letter gave no details about what had been done to them. He had signed himself smiley mouth. Was that a reference to how he’d cut them?

  “We can’t be sure that these came from the killer,” Greco said. “Apart from the girls’ names, there are no other details. That signature could mean anything. But why goad us like this? Why would a killer want to draw attention to himself in this way?”

  “Who knows? But we have to get him, Stephen. The press are like a pack of wolves and we can’t keep this under wraps any longer. What have you got so far? Is anyone even remotely in the frame?” Green asked.

  “No, no one. Both victims led very different lives. The only thing they h
ad in common was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It strikes me that he’s more interested in getting the venue right. He chooses the houses very carefully because he needs to prepare. Then, when he’s ready, he strikes.”

  “The houses were similar and both were up for sale. The agent must have some idea, surely? You’ve checked who viewed them?”

  “No one has shown any interest in either house, sir,” Greco said.

  “And you’re sure the agent isn’t lying?”

  “He has no reason to. Is Laycock here?”

  “Yes. He’s waiting in a soft interview room down on the ground floor. I don’t want him seeing anything up here. Particularly not that.” He pointed to the incident board.

  “I’d like a word with him first. I don’t want him stirring things up with the rest of them, or printing a load of rubbish in his paper. For now, I’d prefer if it was kept quiet,” said Greco.

  “You can try, but I doubt he’ll go for it. He’s got a story and he wants the readership and the sales.”

  “And we’ve got a job to do. Right now the killer thinks he’s calling the shots. Printing this is simply playing into his hands.”

  * * *

  “Mr Laycock? I’m DI Stephen Greco.” He sat down facing the reporter.

  Greco had only ever seen Laycock from a distance. Up close, he was a tall, well-built man with dark hair cut very short and a stubbly beard. Greco thought women would probably consider him good-looking.

  “I’ve looked at the letter. It’s interesting, but there’s nothing in it that proves it came from the killer.”

  “Whether it does or not, what it says is true,” said Laycock. “He’s running rings round the lot of you.” A small smile curled at the edges of his mouth. “Two young women have been murdered and you don’t have a clue. You’re getting nowhere fast. He isn’t going to stop and we all know it. So I have to ask, DI Greco, how many more innocent girls have to die before you lot pull your finger out?”

  Greco felt his hackles rise. He’d only just met the man, and already he disliked him. Laycock set his nerves on edge. “Printing that in your paper won’t help matters. It will simply make the people in this town fearful.”