Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Simply because she’s on the game, boss.” Lizzie’s grin of beaming satisfaction had not yet convinced her chief. “Lives in a dump with three other hookers. They share the room and they share the pimp. He doesn’t sound much nicer than Sullivan. Her life must have been vile since birth. I want to help.”

  “Her, or me, Lizzie?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “But,” decided the DI, “you haven’t told me yet why you’re so convinced it’s the right girl.”

  Lizzie sat without being asked. “Well, no birth certificate. But she described Lionel Sullivan to a Tee. Her mother’s a bitch called Gertie, but hates the name so calls herself Grace. Tracy ran away from home where, surprise surprise, she was abused. It’s all in such detail, sir, no one could have made it all up on the spur of the moment..”

  “We need proof, Lizzie.” The chief tapped his fingertips together and frowned over them. “If this is all correct, you’ll get a chocolate milkshake over at Kaloon’s.”

  Slightly smirking, Lizzie said, “I’ll go and visit tomorrow. She gave me her address.”

  “Go today,” said the inspector.

  The house was less of a dump than Lizzie had expected, but it smelled of brothel business, and it certainly didn’t smell of cleaning liquids or air fresheners. Lizzie rang the bell. Someone poked their head out of the top window, three floors up. “Tracy?” Lizzie called.

  “Basement,” shouted down the head upstairs. Different door.”

  Downstairs was worse. The steps were dark cement, narrow and dirty. The brown painted door was peeling, but a large knocker in the shape of a smiling fish appeared to welcome visitors. Lizzie knocked.

  Tracy answered the door in her dressing gown. “Oh bloody hell, thank goodness,” she mumbled, pushing her hair back from her eyes. “I thought it was a client. I don’t want any pissed blokes just at the moment, thanks. But I didn’t expect you either, Lizzie. I only got to bed about two hours ago.”

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Never mind. Come in,” grumbled Tracy, pulling her dressing gown tighter. “As long as it’s good news and not just more questions.”

  “Both,” Lizzie assured her. Inside were two rooms, each just about large enough to turn around in without banging on the walls. The fractionally larger was the bedroom, black satin sheets with a frilly quilt now on the floor. They sat in the living room which had managed to squash in a very grubby pair of red fake-leather chairs, a television and a kitchenette with one gas-ring and a dirty, cracked sink.

  Presumably watching Lizzie’s expressions, Tracy giggled. “Admiring my palace?”

  With sudden undiplomatic honesty, Lizzie pulled a face. “Don’t you make enough money for something better than this?”

  “A back-handed compliment, I suppose,” Tracy said. “So you think I’m so gorgeous I should be charging a hundred quid a pop? As it happens, I try not to work much. Not every day, anyway. I bloody hate it, so I just lock up and turn the phone off and go to bed for a couple of days. All I get up for is the odd cup of tea and a cheese sandwich.”

  “I’ll go out later and bring something back. Or order a curry to be delivered or something.” She sat gingerly on one of the red plastic chairs. “But if you can make tea -?”

  They both sipped tea. “My mum was on the game,” Tracy said, peeping through steam from the large chipped mug. “I don’t know if she liked it, we never talked much. But I suppose it’s the only job I ever knew. Sort of like the family business. And no, I don’t make much. I don’t care. I like going down on chilly evenings and sitting on the embankment watching the boats on the Thames.”

  “Really?” Lizzie was surprised, even interested. But she remembered her own job. “You don’t have a birth certificate handy, do you?” Tracy shook her head. “Oh well, never mind,” Lizzie said. “What’s your birthdate? I’ll remember to send a card.”

  Tracy sniggered again. “1987. Yeh, I know, old enough to know better.”

  “Same as me,” Lizzie said, scribbling notes. “I’m sure you look younger than that.”

  “Maybe with make-up on. Not like this, my real scarecrow self” Tracy finished her tea with a gulp. “Thirty-two, nearly thirty-three and feeling eighty-three. The ninth of June. Gemini.”

  “Well, perhaps I’m your twin,” Lizzie was almost disbelieving it. “That’s my birthday too. Where were you born?”

  “Not the same parents,” said Tracy, “I’d bet my life on that. Actually, I was born in Cheltenham, but we moved to London when I was a little kid. Five or something. Never been back.”

  “But your father has.”

  Tracy nodded. “I don’t follow the news, and I hate knowing anything about that pig. But I know he’s on the run.” She looked away. Vague thoughts persisted and she found them irritating. So the cop was born on the same day yet now she had a career and made good money. She might even have a husband. Certainly had more to be proud of – instead of a life on the streets and a vague ashamed hatred of herself.

  “And in spite of that, you didn’t know half the British police force was looking for you?”

  “OK, so I’m stupid. But why would I?” Tracy slumped back in the armchair. Small curls of yellow foam were protruding from the split seat. “That’s the last thing I need. Cops – not my favourite nowadays. In the past it was different – but now they’re all rude bastards. And I’ve been picked up before now, so I’m not exactly a mystery.” She bit her lip. Those same thoughts still buzzed inside her head. “Besides, I don’t watch TV, and when I do, it’s Game of Thrones or something. Not the bloody boring news. So a factory caught fire? So someone fell off their bike? Big deal – !”

  “It’s only been a few weeks since we started looking,” Lizzie explained. “With your father on the run, you might know of places to look for him. But we didn’t even know you existed until recently. After all, Sullivan’s a common enough name.”

  “And whoring’s a common enough job.”

  “We knew your sister worked the streets. We didn’t know about you.” Lizzie put her empty mug back on the tiny low table, leaning forwards. “Look, Tracy. I think there’s a lot we could achieve here. Let me talk to my boss, and I’ll see what I can come up with. Would you really get involved if we did a few things in return? Like finding you a decent little flat, and a bit of money to go with it? I mean, we could even put up a decent reward for your dad’s arrest, and make sure you get it.”

  “Wow.” Life had changed in a flash. “You mean it? For that, I’ll do whatever you like.” She paused, and the smile lit up. “Besides, “she admitted, as though confessing to the greater shame, “my telly doesn’t work half the time. A new one would be brilliant. One of those great big screens.”

  “It’ll take a bit of time to set up.” Lizzie swallowed, wondering whether her DI. would call her an idiot and refuse to co-operate. “In the meantime, have a sleep, don’t answer the door to anyone, and that’s extremely important, and I’ll be back in about two or three hours. Mid to late afternoon probably. Get dressed as soon as you wake and wait for me. Make yourself one of those cheese sandwiches you told me about, but I’ll take you out to dinner later. When I come back, I’ll knock on the door and yell my name through the letterbox. How’s that sound?”

  “It sounds bloody great. I’ll wear dull normal clothes, and off we’ll go to the Ritz for dinner.” Tracy hopped up, dressing gown flying open over a torn and transparent nightie just long enough to cover the necessary. “Sleep first, and I’ll wake up all enthusiastic.”

  “And don’t tell another soul. None of the other girls. No clients. No one, especially not your guy. He’ll never find you again anyway.”

  He stared down at the thing on the long table. The excitement paled. Then reignited with a burst as he pushed open her legs and stared closer, touching, then thrusting.

  The knife had been well sharpened, and two large black plastic bags, opened, were lying ready. The blood was dark and sticky and stank. There was some o
n the carpet, and he was going to have to do a good job of scrubbing that off. The stink was slightly nauseous, not just the blood, but the various collections of muck which corpses evidently stored inside, and excreted when dying.

  Undoubtedly the muck and ooze would increase, but it was all good to know. She had died too quickly, though that had been fun at the time. Tremendous fun, in fact. One of the most exciting climaxes so far. But then it left him somewhat bereft.

  He started work with the hand saw,

  Darcey, the accepted expert on the serial killer Lionel Sullivan, received a phone call. Tuesday morning and the final arrangement was to meet for tea and coffee over the road at Brown’s. Rita, Darcey and the Nottingham chief Graham Provost sat a bit squashed on one side of the table, facing Harry and Sylvia on the other. Morrison said, “I had a call from a Sergeant Vaughn from the Met. I don’t know her, although I will soon. Her chief put her on to me. She’s been making friends with Tracy Sullivan?”

  “The real Tracy Sullivan?”

  “They seem convinced that it is.” He nodded at the Nottingham DI, but looked straight across at Sylvia and Harry. “I’m off to London. Call it a diversion. And with a little luck, it will indeed be thoroughly diverting.”

  “What fun to be a homicide expert,” said Sylvia, gulping her tea. “Is that what you dreamed of becoming when you were six?”

  “Hardly.” He grinned. “I wanted to be a lumberjack at six or seven. It changed to being a fireman by the time I was ten. Then a lawyer but my sweet little teacher told me I’d never pass the exams. I chose the next best thing.”

  “I always wanted to be a deep-sea diver exploring wrecks for treasure,’ Graham Provost informed them. Now I can’t even swim. Too fat.”

  Darcey recollected the conversation. “I can’t invite you two along,” he told Harry and Sylvia. “But I won’t forbid it either. This Tracy Sullivan might feel more comfortable with a woman old enough to be her mother.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirty-two, I gather,” Morrison said.

  “Then I’m old enough to be her grandmother.” Sylvia started on a piece of fruit toast swimming in butter. “And I’d love to come – unofficially, of course.”

  “We’re unofficial at the best of times,” Harry murmured. “Though not sure what the best of times involves.”

  “Detective Napper’s driving,” Morrison continued, “Leslie. I’ll introduce you. Got anywhere to stay in London?”

  “My London friends all dropped dead of old age years ago,” said Sylvia. “We’ll find a hotel in whatever area you tell us. Off the record of course.”

  “Centuries ago I used to like a place in Notting Hill,” said Harry. “But they’ve all gone up-market and cost millions now.”

  “I’m afraid we’re off to Southwark,” Rita grinned, pushing her empty plate away, now cleaned of pancakes, bacon, strawberries, maple syrup and poached eggs. She grabbed a napkin. “Miss Sullivan doesn’t work in a posh part of the city. It’s a back alley somewhere south of the river.”

  “We’ll find a motel,” said Harry.

  “Or stay at the Tower. Are you leaving today? We booked out of our cosy tavern two hours ago.”

  “We leave in a couple of hours, just need to confirm a couple of things at the station first.” Morrison nodded to Graham Provost. “And say a temporary goodbye. The skip killing will be yours, Graham, until we can confirm the source. We’ll be settled in Southwark by this evening.” He smiled at Harry. “And I’ll be in Southwark afore ye.”

  “You certainly drive faster,” Harry said. “But I’ll phone once we’ve found a place to stay.”

  “And we can meet up later tomorrow,” said Rita. “Just how you get to meet this girl, I’m not sure. We haven’t worked it out yet, and we’ll need her permission unless we sort of do it in a café or something. Would you be horribly cross if we end up not being able to fix it.”

  “Oh yes,” Sylvia said. “More homicides.”

  “Fair enough,” said Morrison. ‘At least we’d solve them quickly.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Harry, keeping his voice down. “Sullivan had two killing bouts. What stopped him midstream? Marriage to Joyce? That’s what she claimed. But none of us knew he was already married.”

  “We have a very threadbare life history of the creature,” Rita said. “Born in 1957 to a real terror of a mother and a weakling father. The father ran by the time the child was three. Baby Lionel had Acromegaly and probably looked a bit odd. Anyway, the mother tried to kill him off a few times and was the most appalling woman as far as we know. Dead now. There’s a suspicion that Lionel killed her. No proof though. Anyway, he was never taken to the doctors for his condition, though I’ve no idea whether they knew how to treat the condition back then. He looks very unpleasant still, as we all know. The father’s never been traced. No need to start now, I presume. Lionel was just nineteen when he married first time. Gertrude Brewster. The first daughter was born after a couple of months, but there’s a nasty story concerning poor little Karyn, and we’re not sure if she’s dead. It was her underwear we found stuffed up the second wife Joyce. Well, the second daughter seems to have been an afterthought or a mistake, or a sudden trip home after being away for years. We don’t know what or why, but Tracy was born in 1987, more than ten years later. The mother was already a prostitute and evidently put the elder daughter on the streets at a young age. Now we know Tracy has followed the family habit. Reluctantly, she claims.”

  “As we know,” Morrison continued, “our friend Sullivan began a murder splurge in the early nineties. He’d have been in his early thirties. Would someone like that really have waited that long with those sorts of murderous urges? I’d be willing to wager he started far younger. We just don’t know about it. Somebody else may. Even this young daughter. Who knows?”

  “Oh, shit,” Harry muttered. “What a life. And then there’s the Howard triplets. What a cosy area we’ve been living in.”

  Sylvia was counting. “Maybe his mother. Maybe his elder daughter. At least thirteen wasn’t it? The total in the nineteen-nineties, and then two years ago. Now poor dear Joyce, and Mark Howard too. And now the girl in Nottingham. And you’re saying there must have been others.”

  “I believe there were.” Morrison was frowning. “Why would he have waited till his thirties to start killing. Clearly, he’s a maniac with a lust for blood and mutilation. That sort of creature doesn’t live the first part of his life as a normal loving husband.”

  “Maybe his daughter will give some clues,” said Rita.

  “We’re meeting up with the DI. this evening,” Morrison said. “And the Sullivan girl tomorrow.”

  “It’s going to be an interesting week,” said Sylvia.

  It was that evening they enjoyed the extensive menu at the Chinese restaurant over the road, and enjoyed a piping hot sake, hardly the correct Chinese cuisine but most welcome for all that. Harry accepted chopsticks, but Sylvia, hands too arthritic, begged pardon and used a fork. “I like Nottingham,” she told Harry. “Never been here before.”

  “Nor me. It would make a nice long weekend away if we ever get time for a holiday.”

  Sylvia, laughing, finished her sake, which was going cold. “We’re off to Africa for a whole month in September. Besides, we’re free to go anywhere anytime.”

  “After they catch Lionel Sullivan,” said Harry, chopsticks waving in the air.

  A middle-aged man on the next table looked over, smiling and clearing his throat. “I don’t wish to interrupt,” he said cautiously, “but I heard you speak of Lionel Sullivan. Would you be working for the police?”

  “Sort of,” said Harry.

  “Oh, I don’t wish to pry,” the man said in a hurry. “I’m sure it’s all very hush hush. But I just wondered if there was anything you could tell us. You see, we’ve been personally affected, and after all the bad news, a little good news would be such a blessing.”

  The woman sitting at the same tabl
e nodded vigorously. “Not only poor little Chelsea, she was the first victim from around here as I’m sure you know, but then Ian Price died of an unexpected virus. His parents were devastated of course. We know them from church, and they said Ian was one of the most popular boys at school.”

  “And then, after all that,” added the man, “my dearest sister died of a sudden stroke. My poor little sister Edith.”

  “I don’t think the Sullivan creature causes strokes,” said Harry, puzzled.

  “No, no,” said the woman in a hurry. “But it’s been such a worry for us lately. And imagining that murderer jumping on us every time we go out – well, it’s just a nightmare. If only someone would catch him.”

  “We wish the same,” Sylvia said. “I’m quite sure the only person who wants him free, is Lionel himself.”

  “I’m Daisy, by the way,” said the woman. “And this is George, my husband. Would you like to join us for a pudding and a nice glass of wine? We don’t drink as a rule, but meeting people who have knowledge of this terrible situation, well, it’s worth a celebration.”

  Sylvia looked doubtful beneath her frown, but Harry said, “What a kind offer, Daisy. We’d love to join you, wouldn’t we Sylvia dear?”

  “More than anything I can possibly imagine,” said Sylvia, very flat voiced.

  Chapter Three

  The cottage had once been thatched, but the roof had fallen into disrepair many years previously and had finally blown off. Lionel Sullivan stole an old, ripped and abandoned tent from a caravan site, and put it up inside the cottage so that he had a cosy well insulated living room and bedroom, he could emerge to use what was left of the kitchen in the old house. Neither gas nor electricity remained, but he could light a small fire under the two gas burners and used a pot instead of a kettle. There was sufficient straw and twigs around to start as many fires as he fancied, and the cosy warmth kept whistling winds away. He slept well and stole enough food to keep from misery, and so it wasn’t food he was hungry for. His groin pleaded with him, and his prick wept. It had been a long, long time without even the beginnings of satisfaction.