Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Copyright © 2019 by Gaskell Publishing
All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be
Reproduced without prior permission of the author
except in the case of brief quotations and reviews
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It’s A Wrap
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Chapter One
There was one thing she didn’t know about yet. But she was arrested at midnight.
The cell was the usual thing , no privacy, plenty of claustrophobia, and felt almost as damp inside as it had outside. A London spring. So it had been raining as usual. Visiting this particular cell wasn’t the first time either. It hadn’t changed. One bed. One toilet. One pillow. Not that her own flat was much better. And a very kind female officer had brought her a cup of hot tea, and that really was a first.
She’d been avoiding the rain in doorways and under awnings, half looking for business and half just hoping to catch up with Luna and go off for a coffee at McDonalds or some all-night place. She’d whirled around at the male voice, but it certainly wasn’t business.
“I’ve been watching you. What’s your name?” Full uniform and an accusatory stare.
Five to twelve, but the street lighting was a yellow glare which disguised both stars and moon and showed up everything else instead. The streaks of drizzle still dripped from her hair. “Tracy Sullivan. And I haven’t been doing anything wrong. I’m looking for my mother.”
“Now let’s have the correct name, miss. And I know quite well it’s not your mother you’ve been looking for. It’s male customers. So now you’d better come with me.”
“Oh shit.” At least the cop didn’t cuff her, so she let him shove her into the back of the car.
It was the following morning before they questioned her. “Alright, you can go. Just stop walking the streets at night, and use a little sense.” Pause. “One question before you go.”
“Is it still raining outside?” She had neither coat nor cardigan.
“Not a question from you,” grinned the female police sergeant. “One from me. Evidently, you told Constable Wentworth your name was Tracy Sullivan.”
Nodding, and trying not to answer with the usual scowl. “That’s my name. I don’t know why your idiot cop didn’t believe me. Nothing odd about that name.”
“Well, actually there is.” The Sergeant pushed open another door. The trouble is, the name isn’t exactly uncommon. So, well, do you mind talking for just a few minutes? It’s not an arrest, I promise. But it’s important. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
What an exciting bribe. “Breakfast?”
“Well.” Another pause. “Maybe. But questions and answers first.”
The interview room was the usual thing of course, but vastly improved by the steaming mug of tea facing her. “Go on then. What’s the special treatment for? Do you want me to be a grass or something?” She sipped the tea, breathed in the steam, and felt warm for the first time in twenty-four hours. “And what’s wrong with my name? Common enough, I reckon.”
“That’s just the problem,” said Sergeant Lizzy Vaughn. “Do you mind giving your birth date? And I wonder if you could tell me something about your parents and your sister. Did you ever have a sister? And did you know your father well when you were younger?”
“He’s killed again,” said the morning news with a splutter of excitement. “Breaking news from Nottingham. A black plastic bag was found in a skip on the outskirts of the city late last night. Birds and foxes had split the plastic and revealed the body parts of a young woman. Some hours later someone called the police. This appears to be the work of Lionel Sullivan once more.”
Grasping Ruby’s hand in hers, Sylvia sighed but the sigh caught in her throat. “So he’s out of this area,” she said. “That’s one blessing for selfish people like me with a horror of that creature turning up on my doorstep.”
“He’s always moved around,” Harry said from the adjacent armchair.
Sylvia looked over the top of Ruby’s bright head. “Oh, don’t say it. We’re not going to drive all the way to Nottingham to look in sheds.”
“Well, not today. It’s pouring with rain. And we invited Darcey and Peggy for dinner tonight.” Harry waved an absent-minded hand, then scratched his ear lobe. “Anyway, monstrous crimes outside Gloucestershire aren’t our responsibility. Not that any of it is really.”
Percival looked up over the top of the newspaper he was reading. “I hope not Harry. You’re not the type.”
With a faint smile, Harry wondered which one was suffering the onset of dementia, Percival or his wife. It was the wife Amy who was playing with her teaspoon, stirring her coffee first clockwise and then anti-clockwise. She looked a little ruffled. “I used to be your type, Percy. That’s why you married me.”
Putting down the newspaper with deliberation, Percival frowned. “Nothing to do with types or murders,” he said, staring at his wife. “Not the sort of thing I’d chose to say in front of the whole manor, my dear, but we married because I did love you.”
“Did?”
“Do, my dear Amy, do and always will.”
Amy smiled. “Dear man,” she told him. “Quite insufferable. But quite delicious. Better than chocolate biscuits.”
But the television had moved on from headlines and was now discussing the dreadful discovery in more detail. “As yet unidentified, the young woman found dead just outside Nottingham this morning, is still under investigation. The crime scene has been blocked off and the police are refusing to discuss their findings so far.” The reporter, an umbrella flapping in the wind was not keeping him particularly dry, approached a policeman standing in front of the turn to another narrow street. “Good morning, sir,” said the reporter. “Might I ask a few questions on this shocking morning?”
The policeman, helmet brim dripping, shook his head and sent the drips flying. “No comment, mate. Too early for any conclusions. The forensic team only just moved in.”
“Turn off that rubbish,” yelled Ruby, emerging from Sylvia’s half-hearted embrace. “It’s always bad news or no news. This time it’s both.”
“The trouble is,” said Sylvia, “Lionel Sullivan’s horrific behaviour touches us closely. He killed poor Joyce. I know you didn’t like Joyce, Bluebell, but she’d had a vile life with that man, and then a vile death at his hand. Harry actually got him arrested the first time as you know. Oh God, if he’s started again – how does he manage to get away all the time? It’s four months since he escaped prison.”
“He’s only killed once in that time. Well,” Harry changed his mind, “First his wife, and now this one. But we can’t really be sure yet if it’s his work.”
“They’re not going to shout things out on television, are they?” called Stella from the sofa by the fire. “That monster’s killings always end in such carnage. Mutilation. Torture. Well, they wo
n’t describe all that, will they? We’d all vomit back our breakfast. But if they suspect that man, then the corpse is in bits, you can count on it.”
“Since it’s not his territory,” Harry nodded back, “Morrison won’t be in on it. But I bet the Nottingham cops will be over to discuss it with him. Darcey’s the Sullivan expert. So we can ask him tonight.”
“Too early,” said Sylvia. “He won’t admit a thing yet. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he cancels our dinner date anyway and buzzes off to Nottingham for a couple of days. Not his territory – true – but he’ll be called on as an expert. Consultations. He’s our Sullivan guy now, isn’t he! What a horrid title.”
“So we follow?” grinned Harry.
Sylvia interrupted him before he started making B&B reservations. “Not until after we talk to Darcey. Yes, I know I’m bossy but I’m not Maid Marion, and I have no interest in Nottingham forest until we know for sure about bloody Lionel.”
The phone call was predictable. “He’s had to sprint off to Nottingham,” Peggy said. “And so has Rita. She was going to babysit. So I can’t come either. Besides, Atticus has toothache. Sorry, we’ll make it again soon.”
“As we expected,” Harry said, clicking off his phone. “But I’m not letting that man go. Sullivan, I mean – not Darcey. But a long weekend in Nottingham could be pleasant enough.”
“Well, you know how to follow a SatNav now so we wouldn’t get lost.”
“Actually,” Harry chewed his lip, “I rather miss getting lost sometimes. Being lost used to take me to interesting places.”
Sylvia closed her eyes. “Once it nearly got you killed. But I suppose that’s why you have such an exhausting determination to catch the vile man. But please, Harry, not tomorrow. Let’s leave on Saturday, and not at dawn.”
The long and bitter winter had fizzled into March showers, daffodils and daisies with a few bright blue-sky-days bringing hope of better to come. But it was grey and windy when Sylvia clamped her navy wool over her silver hair, kissed Ruby goodbye and clambered into the front passenger seat of the Lexus. Harry had been waiting with the engine running, so the heating was already blowing hot air, and Sylvia leaned back in relief and unwound her scarf. “Alright then, my love. Let’s head off into the northern wilderness.”
“Gloucestershire weather isn’t much better than the Midlands.”
But it was warm in the car with the heating full on, and the seats nice and hot. two sheepskin rugs and a Burberry throw, just in case and two flasks of piping hot tea supplied by Lavender, with the radio playing Sibelius quite softly in the background. The music stopped for the ten o’clock news. The recent discovery of a mutilated female corpse wrapped in a black rubbish bag and discovered in an old skip on a nearby building site. The body has been difficult to identify, but Lionel Sullivan who escaped from prison several months ago is suspected as the killer. Now final identification has been made, but the police have not yet announced the name. The dead woman is thought to have lived locally and disappeared only a few days preceding the discovery. The police will hold a press meeting at two o’clock this afternoon, and we will bring you the news as soon as possible.
“Oh, so fascinating,” Harry sniffed. “How would we live without the media?”
“Might be more interesting after the police announcement,” Sylvia suggested. “So get a hotel room with a television, just in case.”
But it was during dinner at the local pub that Sylvia and Harry were able to discuss the snippets of news the police had earlier released. Sylvia was mopping up the gravy she’d spilt down the front of her jumper from her pie. Harry said, “We never met the poor girl. But it sounds like Sullivan is out and about again.”
“She was only eighteen.” Sylvia looked up from her deep cleaning attempt.
“We’ll see Morrison tomorrow,” nodded Harry.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Police stations don’t close for church. And at home, Sunday would catch Darcey in his Winnie the Pooh flannelette pyjamas. But here, he’ll be working. He wouldn’t come all this way just to stay in bed.”
But it was not DI Darcey Morrison they saw the next day when they turned up at the station. The uniform behind the desk nodded, eyed them over, and picked up the phone on the desk, clicked a button of some sort, and muttered, “Wait over there. Won’t be long.”
There were two chairs. But as soon as they sat, DI Rita Ellis bounded in, shiny blue mackintosh soaked over the shoulders. “Didn’t expect you,” she said. “But it’s nice to see you again. Come with me and we’ll have some coffee. Darcey isn’t here at present. He’s in a meeting with the Nottingham chief. But he’ll come and join us when the seniors have finished with him.”
They left the car outside and scurried over the road, getting splashed by passing cars, and bundled into a small café which lacked lighting but gained a deep rich perfume of frying bacon and hot coffee.
“We’re sure it’s him,” Rita said, steam in her eyes. “The poor little girl was found in pieces, although not as badly mutilated as some of his victims in the past. We don’t think that’s especially relevant since it depends on what sort of accommodation he has. If he can’t sit around and play his filthy games in private for a week or more, then he has to make the whole thing quick. And that’s what’s happened by the looks of it.” She leaned forward, elbows on the small coffee-ringed table. “I don’t suppose your unexpected arrival means you have some magic information?”
“Unfortunately no,” Sylvia apologised. “But this whole disgusting crime sounds very rushed. You know one time the monster committed the murder in the usual way, and the usual place down south, but then managed to move elsewhere for the burial, just to confuse the police. So it’s not as if he’s never moved around before. This sounds a bit like that time. But we can’t be sure of anything, not with him.”
“How’s Milton Howard?” asked Harry suddenly.
“Who? Oh – yes, of course.” Rita was surprised. “I’ve stopped following up on that one. That Met creep Cramble is still chasing the money laundering business, but he hasn’t been financed for flying off to Dubai, so he’s not achieving very much. The last I heard of Milton he was waiting to have his legs fixed. But I expect he’s still at the psycho home now.”
“Is that what it’s called? Or just politically incorrect?”
“It’s the Theodore McBride Institute. Same difference. A home for the criminally insane, and basically the end of the run for the sociopath and psychopath instead of prison. Personally, I think Lionel Sullivan should have been sent there, and might even get some help. He certainly won’t get any in a high-security prison. I hear Milton still keeps asking for his lady. But I can’t feel sorry for him. I certainly do for Evie.”
“You’ve followed up on her instead?”
“Gracious yes,” Rita said. “How could I not? It’s only two months or less, so she’s still in a terrible condition. They’ve moved house to somewhere more private and much nicer. Funds from both the council and the police. Well deserved. I’ve seen her twice, and I intend going again, but there’s not much I can help her with anymore.”
Harry ordered another coffee. “So that last case is sorted but still has its terrible ramifications. Maurice Howard is presumably getting ridiculously rich in Dubai. But surely he’d still try and keep in touch with his little triplet?”
Rita had no idea. “That’s up to Cramble and the doctors. Not my case.”
“You and Morrison are both still on Sullivan’s then?”
“Indeed we are.” Rita leaned forwards again. But if you still keep in touch with Kate Howard, we wouldn’t mind knowing anything of interest.”
“By all means,” said Sylvia, finishing the glass of water she’d asked for after a boiling hot espresso. “She still runs the shop, and now she’s got Iris living there with her. They do the cooking together, and it seems Iris hasn’t approached a fruit machine in months. Life is getting better for some if not for others. But the last t
ime I spoke to Kate, she denied any contact with her husband.”
“It’s what she told us too, I wonder?” Rita was pulling out her notebook when Morrison came in.
Chapter Two
“It wasn’t like that,” mumbled the girl. “Actually it was sort of horrible and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I can understand that,” Sergeant Vaughn. London based, nodded with an encouraging smile. “But this could be extremely important, Tracy. Look – call me Lizzie. And just relax. Forget about this being a police interview. You agree to talk and answer everything I ask, and we can sit over the road in that café, and I’ll get you whatever you want for breakfast. They’ve got an alcove which is fairly private. What do you think?”
“What are you going to ask?”
“Everything,” Lizzie said at once. “About your family and every detail you can think of. Agree to that, and I’ll buy you the biggest breakfast you’ve ever eaten.”
“Just because I’m Tracy Sullivan? My mother’s a bitch and I hardly knew me dad. Your other cop didn’t even believe that’s my name.”
“Let me explain,” said Lizzie. “But first of all, agree to talk.”
Tracy talked. It was three hours later that Sargeant Vaughn trotted back to the station and marched in to see her DI. “Very smart of you, Lizzie,” DI. Charley Finch said with faint scepticism. “Perkins was quite sure the girl gave a false name. How could she not have known we were searching for her, for goodness sake?”
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