by Edward Figg
Marcia Kirby came out from under the porches’ overhang and walked up to where Carter was standing.
‘Morning sir.’
Carter yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Morning Marcia. What does it look like?’
They moved towards the door. She opened her notebook and held it to the light so she could read it better.
‘It's not for the faint-hearted sir, that's for sure. Student nurse, Allison Connor, age twenty-five. Her flat mate, Mary Ashcroft, discovered the body just before eleven. She came in from her shift. The area car got here twenty minutes later. Mary Ashcroft, the flat mate, said she called Connor from the hospital at six-thirty. Connor said she was perfectly fine. She said she was just about to settle down and watch the news on the telly. Ashcroft is down at one of the other nurse's flats, number five. She's quite distressed.’
‘How many of these flats are occupied?’ asked Carter, looking around.
‘Four of the ten are occupied. Connor and Ashcroft have a two-bed flat. There's singles as well. There's one nurse in number five. The other two occupants are on night shift and won't be back 'til about seven.’
‘With that many vacant flats, our National Health Service must be bloody short of nurses,’ said Carter.
Hearing a voice, he turned to see Broadbent coming out of the flat with Tim Bryant, the forensic team leader. After Broadbent had stripped off his white paper suit, Carter could see Broadbent's pyjamas poking out from beneath his trouser bottoms. ‘Those are all indications that he's going straight back to his warm bed. Lucky sod,’ thought Carter. He thought of his own warm bed. Not much chance of seeing that tonight.
Broadbent walked over to them.
‘Morning all! This is a real crappy way to start the day. It's enough to put one off one's breakfast. Anyway, looks like she was killed sometime between seven and nine thirty. The neck wound, as near as dammit, is the same as Newman's and, although I can’t say for sure at the moment, it looks like the same weapon was used. It's hard to tell at present because of all the blood, but I'd say she was definitely strangled first. I'll know more when I get her back on the slab. At the moment, I can’t see any defensive wounds. As I said, I’ll know more when I get the autopsy done. I’ll get off home and get a few hours’ beauty sleep. I don’t have a lot on today, so I should be able to have something to you by lunch time.’
‘Thanks doc,’ said Carter, putting his hand up to his mouth and yawning.
Broadbent looked at Marcia Kirby, nodded his head in the direction of the flat and said, ‘Sergeant, I think you have yourself a serial killer.’ He turned and walked over to his car, got in and drove off.
‘Yes… I do believe he's right,’ she said, watching Broadbent drive off.
Carter and Kirby suited up, and entered the flat. The forensic team was going about their business. Carter moved to one side as the photographer set about documenting the scene. After he’d finished, the body was lifted up and placed into a body bag. Carter went over and stared down at the dead woman's face and said, ‘Who done this to you?’ The mortuary attendant zipped up the bag, stood up, and nodding to his companion they lifted the body and carried it out to the van.
The Carter and Kirby, followed the body as it was carried out of the lounge and down the hall.
Turning to Kirby, Carter said, ‘What's his motive, why's he doing this?’
Once outside, she took of her face mask and pulled back the hood of her SOCO crime suit.
‘It goes without saying: we’re dealing with a real sicko mind here sir. I've seen this kind of thing before. My bet's on a paranoid schizophrenic. Many start off abusing animals at a young age. He’s no thrill killer, that's for sure. The primary motive of thrill killers is to terrorise their victims. He hasn't done that. With him, it's quick and calculated. He went in and got out fast. Many take souvenirs. This one doesn’t. I bet you any money you like, he's on a mission. Mission oriented killers typically justify their acts as ridding the world of a certain type of person perceived as undesirable,’ said Kirby.
‘OK. I'll buy that. But if he's on a mission, as you say, then what the hell is the relationship between our two victims? I don't see them as undesirables? As far as I can see, Newman and Connor are just normal everyday people. What have they got in common, I wonder?’
‘When we find that sir we’re on our way to finding this bastard. The question is, as you say, how are these two women connected? One, a waitress the other a nurse.’
'Time will tell Sergeant, time will tell.’
They went back inside the flat just as Tim Bryant's technicians were packing up their equipment and preparing to leave. Carter and Kirby went first into the bedroom and started to look around. They knew from Bryant that there were no signs of a forced entry. The living room, where they went next, was tastefully decorated. It had two armchairs, a settee, a small dining table and a TV. Nothing had been disturbed. Apart from the dark red stain on the carpet, it all looked neat and tidy. There was a small bookcase in the corner. The first thing he noticed about its contents was the absences of what Carter called, ‘trashy novels.’ There were no romance novels either. Most of the books related to medicine and nursing subjects ranging from chemistry to anatomy and surgical procedures. Going by the titles he reckoned that Allison Connor was training to be a theatre nurse.
After doing a thorough search of the place, Carter looked at his watch. It was 4 a.m. He called out to Kirby. She came out of the kitchen. ‘Right, Marcia. Let's wrap it up. There's nothing more we can do here now. You get off home and get a few hours' kip; I'll see you back in the office about nine.
Outside, they took off their protective suits and tossed them in a bin.
After Kirby drove off, Carter stood just thinking for a while. He turned back to the PC who was standing by the door.
‘Night, lad. You can call yer mate in from the street. No point in him staying out there.’ ‘Right sir,’ he said.
As Carter headed across the wet tarmac to his car, the mist, that had greeted him on his arrival, had almost gone. In another few hours, he thought, the sun would be up. A new day. The residents of Kingsport would awake and go about their normal daily lives. To them it was just another day, but for Allison Connor there would be no new days. Never again.
Deciding there was no point in going home, he drove over to Kent Street.
There was no one on the reception desk as he entered. He heard a door slam from somewhere within the building. Apart from the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, all was silent. He entered the CID area and switched on the lights. After making himself a coffee, and taking it in to his office, his sat down at his desk and thought about Maureen Newman and Allison Connor. Was there a link? In the warm confines of his office, he began to feel drowsy. Leaning back in his chair, he put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes, he’d fallen into an uneasy asleep.
He woke an hour and a half later to the sound of rain hitting the window. He stood up, stretched and straightened his back, then went out and made himself another coffee. He walked over to the window and stood looking out over the park. The only sign of life was a lone jogger running along the path. The shower had eased and the sun started to make a watery appearance. ‘Another day, another murder,’ he said, softly.
The raindrops on the leaves of the big oak trees in the park sparkled in the soft rays of the morning sun. He turned and looked at the wall clock. The canteen would not be open yet so he decided, since nobody would be in for at least another hour, he would go out and get a quick breakfast.
Outside, he waited while a red, single-decker bus splashed its way through the puddles on the High Street. He waited for it to pass, then dodging the puddles on the road, he crossed over. He headed for the café down on the corner, a short walk away.
He went in feeling its warm air wrap around him. The smell of frying bacon filled his nostrils. He looked up at the chalk board menu on the wall. He was spoilt for choice. He went to the counter and gave his order t
o a young woman there. ‘Egg and bacon sandwich and a large coffee, please.’ He then went over and sat down at a window table. The waitress came over to the table and took away the remnants of the previous occupant's breakfast. Picking up a newspaper that had been lying on the table, he scanned it for any news of last night's murder. There was none. The midday edition would pick it up for sure.
He cleared away a small patch of condensation on the window and stared out at the passing traffic. A light drizzle had started to fall again. Pedestrians on their way to work were hurrying along the pavement. Outside in the Kent market town of Kingsport it was, what the locals called, a typical wet summer's morning. But not that typical because the peaceful town of Kingsport was waking up to its second murder, two in ten days. Not typical. Definitely not typical. He sighed.
The waitress brought over his order, placed it on the table with the bill, smiled, and left without a word.
Carter wondered if she was Maureen Newman's replacement.
The café was not busy. There were two elderly ladies over at the far corner table, their heads bowed over their cups in whispered conversation. Radio Kent was playing softly from of a wall speaker. The only other occupant was a man, who shortly rose from his table, walked up to the counter, paid his bill, exchanged a few words with the waitress and left. Carter hoped he’d catch sight of Christine Wilcox. She was nowhere to be seen.
After he’d finished breakfast and was about to get up and leave, he saw her walk out from the kitchen. She spotted Carter, smiled, and came over.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. How are you?’ Not waiting for the answer, she indicated the chair opposite. ‘May I?’ She pulled out the chair and sat down.
‘Sorry, err, Christine. Hope you don’t mind me calling you that? And please, call me Bob. At this time of the morning, Chief Inspector sounds a bit too formal,’ he said, smiling.
The two old ladies both stopped talking and looked in their direction. After a few seconds, they turned away and went back to their huddled conversation.
‘Yes, by all means, but please call me Christine or even, Chrissie.’ She smiled, then said, ‘Do you have any news about Maureen?’
‘No, I’m afraid there's nothing I can say at the moment. We're still making enquiries.’ He decided not to mention the latest murder. She'd soon hear about it.
She stood up to go, pushing the chair back under the table, and said, ‘OK. I know you're a busy man, so I'll let you finish your breakfast in peace.’
She turned to leave but Carter stopped her and without thinking, said, ‘Ermm… I was just wondering…
She turned back, looking down at him.
‘Ermm… would you like to go out for a drink sometime? If you're free, that is? But, I quite understand if not. I know you must be very busy with the café and everything, so…’ He suddenly ran out of words.
She cocked her head sideways and looked at him in a strange way. She seemed to be thinking about it, then, slowly her face broke into a smile. ‘Yes. Thank you. Yes, I would like that very much.’
She bent and touched his hand. He felt her warmth. The second she touched his hand he felt a sudden flutter deep in the pit of his stomach. ‘Was it her or was it the bacon and egg sandwich?’ he wondered. A faint flush of colour rose in his cheeks.
She straightened up. ‘It would be good to have a night out and get away from this place for a while.’ She looked over to the door as two more customers came in. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back. You have my phone number?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do. I’ll call you.’
‘Yes, please do.’ She gave him a parting smile, then made her way between the tables and headed back to the kitchen.
*******
The two ladies were still locked in deep conversation when Carter rose to leave. As he paid his bill he felt quite pleased. ‘I’ll ring her and organise something for the weekend,’ he thought. As he walked the few blocks back to Kent Street, the rain suddenly stopped and the sun started breaking through. The last of the rain clouds started moving away. He felt good.
*******
As he walked back into the reception area, Tony McPhee, the uniform Duty Inspector came hastily out of his office. Not looking where he was going, he ran straight into Carter.
‘Geez, Sorry Bob. Deep in thought.’
‘I can see that,’ said Carter. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Just had Mrs Marsh on the phone. The Super had a stroke last night. He's in hospital. Mrs Marsh said the doctors said that it's not too severe but he won’t be back here for a while. He'll be in hospital about a week and then he'll need some therapy because his right arm's not quite right. They may have to put a stent in.’
‘Well, with all that bloody weight he was carrying, I'm surprised he lasted that long. He was a time bomb waiting to go off. This could mean early retirement.’ Carter said. It was a happy thought but it quickly disappeared as he suddenly realised he was now the ranking officer. It was now down to him to take over the station.
‘That means that all this…’ he slowly looked about him… ‘it's all mine… Bollocks! That’s the last thing I need right now,’ he thought. ‘I'll get on to area HQ and let them know. Looks as if we may need a new boss. And I'm bloody sure it's not going to be me. There's no way I'm going to be tied to a desk after last night.’ He told McPhee about Allison Connor's death.
As he walked away, he said, ‘Oh, Tony, will you get someone to organise a whip around? Get some flowers and a card sent over.’ He dug into his inside pocket and took a pound note out of his wallet and handed it to McPhee. ‘Start it off with this. Will you check to see if Mrs Marsh wants anything?’
‘I did ask her that when she phoned, she said she was fine. I’ll get Tom Crane to organise whip around. He's got bugger all to do. He's good at that kind of thing. Getting money out of this lot is going to be like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘On this occasion, it will be,’ replied Carter.
McPhee turned and walked off, leaving Carter wondering just how much they'd raise from the whip around. He smiled as he pictured a very small bunch of flowers with an even smaller get well card.
*******
‘So, that's the situation with Superintendent Marsh at the moment,’ he said, as he stood in the CID room drinking from his souvenir coffee mug, with a picture of the Tower of London on it. ‘Until they can get a replacement, I’ll take over. I’ll do what I can from here. I shan’t be moving to his office. It may also be necessary to draft in some more manpower to assist with this latest murder.’
‘What details have we got from last night sir?’ said Baxter, who was sitting perched on the edge of his desk.
‘I was just coming to that Ted. OK. So, getting on to last night's murder.’ He walked over to the incident board, picked up a marker pen and started to write beneath her photo. ‘Allison Connor, age twenty-five, student nurse. Found by her flat mate, Mary Ashcroft, at the nurse's home after Mary came off her shift at eleven. Connor had the same injuries as Maureen Newman. Doc Broadbent will be doing the autopsy this morning. We should have more details by lunchtime. There are three more nurses living in that block. Two were working, the other at home. We know Connor was alive at six thirty because her flat mate phoned her.’
He put down the marker pen, moved over to the window and looked down at the morning traffic. He was imagining the newspaper headlines. The press, who had already called the station for confirmation and a statement, was going to have a field day with this. He spun around, and looked at them all.
‘OK. I want to know who her friends were. Did she have any relatives? You know the routine. We need to find out if there is anything linking the two of them.’ He looked over to Lynch and Reid. ‘Dave, Mike, he said, ‘I want you to go to the nurses’ residence and talk to them.’
‘Play yer cards right, you might find yerself a nice fat comely matron,’ joked Reid.
Lynch wasn’t going to bite. He just gave Reid a sympath
etic shake of his head then held up his middle finger.
‘Ted, Bill. You get over to the hospital, talk to them over there. Talk to her colleagues on shift, talk to the personnel department. Talk to anyone who knew her.
Uniform will be doing a house-to-house in Tower Street. It might turn up something. The access laneway to the flats runs off Tower Street. Tower Street runs between Hay and Willow Streets. There's plenty of vehicle and foot traffic. There's a chance that someone walking their dog or driving past might have seen someone in the laneway.’ He thought about it for a few moments then continued. ‘Let's get uniform to do Hay and Willow. I doubt if it will come ta’ much. That time of the night, not too many people about.’ Looking at Kirby, he said, ‘Marcia, if you have any suggestions, anything at all, feel free to say so. This is where your time in MIT will benefit all of us. You don't have to run it by me first. If you think an action is warranted, just do it.’ He looked at those gathered around. ‘OK everybody, you’ve all got your assignments, so hop to it.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘We have a killer to catch people, chop, chop, off you go.’
*******