by Michael Kerr
There was no sign of a male presence, other than a large stock of condoms in a bedside cabinet. The only real point of interest was the personal computer in the guest bedroom-come-study, and a couple of dozen memory sticks and some disks were in a locked storage unit in a drawer of the desk.
“We need to do this by the book, Pete,” Matt said. “I want a warrant to cover seizure of this lot. If she knew her killer, which I very much doubt, then the last thing we need is evidence on her pc or USB flash drives that some smart defence lawyer would try to have ruled inadmissible when we got to court.”
It had been several hours later that Kenny Ruskin from CCS – Computer Crime Section – had dropped by on his own time and booted up Marsha’s pc, that was now in Matt’s office. Pete had linked up with Errol Chambers and gone out to Winchmore Hill to interview Marsha’s mother. The rest of the team were still on the street.
“You’re a dinosaur, Barnes,” Kenny said with a smug smile as he cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers. “It’s time you took a course and joined the twenty-first century.”
Matt gripped the young computer expert’s shoulder and squeezed it hard enough to make him grunt. “I appreciate you helping us out, Kenny. But don’t take the piss. I’m too busy catching bad guys to become multi-skilled. Just take your pick of the memory sticks in that box and put whatever’s on it up on the screen for me.”
Kenny rolled his shoulder when Matt let go of it. Went to work. His fingers moved in a blur over the keyboard.
“I’m locked out,” he said to Matt. “I need a password.”
“So bypass it or whatever it is you hotshots do to get into these gizmos,” Matt came back.
“It’s not that easy. When a machine is password protected, you might get three chances to enter the right word. Then anything can happen.”
“Meaning?”
Kenny snorted with amusement at Matt’s ignorance. “That until I work it out, we use one of the terminals in the squad room. In this case, I suspect the user was an amateur and has the machine protected with a simple password, but you’ll be able to see what’s on the flash drives on any pc.”
“So I didn’t need your...expertise.”
“Of course you did. Just to switch it on would probably be beyond your―”
“Don’t push it, Kenny. For old times sake I’m refraining from taking my gun out and shooting you in your big mouth.”
“You watch too many cop shows, Barnes. I bet you were weaned on Starsky and Hutch and The Sweeney as a kid.”
“You’re damn right I was. Now let’s go next door and see what we’ve got here,” Matt said, lifting up the storage unit and leading the way. “And the victim’s pc is evidence. I’d appreciate you taking it back to CCS and pulling anything you can off the hard drive.”
Once up and going, Matt took over. He could manage opening the files on the sticks, and Kenny showed him which keys to press to print out anything he might have a need to.
“Thanks, I owe you one,” Matt said as Kenny made to leave.
“No problemo, Barnes. I’ll give you a bell when we retrieve what’s on the pc.”
Matt entered the world of Marsha Freeman via the screen in front of him. She had not only alphabetically listed the names, addresses and contact telephone numbers of her clients, but had also entered details of their marital status, and made notes of what sexual practices they enjoyed performing with her. She had even made a note of all physical peculiarities and habits that individualised them. It was as if she was compiling research. For what? Blackmail? To write a book? As a form of protection? Matt mulled it over. If this information had been compiled as a personal insurance plan against some hypothetical future threat, then surely the sticks and disks would have been well hidden, or kept in a safe deposit box, not in an unlocked drawer in the desk that her computer was set up on. This was a record of events that would give any editor at Canary Wharf a serious hard-on.
Matt picked another stick at random, selected a file marked J-K-L and scrolled through it, stopping when he recognised the name of an executive who worked for a music company, and who was a celebrity in his own right, having appeared on TV more than Ant and Dec of late; a Simon Cowell clone.
Matt read through what Marsha had written under the heading of Oliver Kerwin. What Matt supposed was the guy’s two addresses and telephone numbers were followed by a scathing critique: Olly is an arrogant and selfish lover. Truly believes that he is God’s gift to women, but has difficulty getting it up without sniffing poppers. He likes it from behind, talks dirty while performing poorly, and never stays longer than an hour. He has a large, port wine coloured, crescent-shaped naevus on his right buttock, and a cluster of moles on the underside of his uncircumcised and small penis...
Matt grinned. This was dynamite. And he would never look at Kerwin in the same light again. Marsha knew more about the man than his doctor or mother. She had filled two pages with intimate details, and had listed all dates over a six month period when ‘Olly’ had visited the apartment, and other dates when she had been at his Kensington-based love nest, which was not his main residence.
It was the footnote that wiped the smile from Matt’s face: See Vid #7.
Sweet Jesus! It implied that there were videos. That she had taped her activities. It was a big if, but if there was a visual record of all her clients, then just maybe one of them would be wearing a wolf head ring, which would be the case-breaker.
Standing up, he went over to the ever-gurgling coffeemaker and filled a mug with the stale but hot brew. His heart was beating double-time. His instinct still told him that it was a stranger to Marsha who had murdered her, but he couldn’t quite suppress the optimism that made him feel jumpy and impatient to act. He sipped at the bitter coffee, pulled a face and put the mug down. Starbucks it wasn’t. He pulled a diary from the inside pocket of his blouson and looked up Pete’s mobile number.
Pete and Errol were the second set of police officers to knock at the door of the mock-Tudor detached house in Winchmore Hill that day.
Sylvia Freeman opened it and stared at them stony-faced. Pete could see the strong resemblance to her late daughter. She had flame red hair drawn back from a high-cheeked and attractive face. Although trying to keep a stiff upper lip, the puffiness around her eyes was not lost on Pete. He held out his warrant card for her to inspect.
She nodded. “What can I do for you, Detectives? You do realise that this is a bad time.”
Pete was glad that other officers had already performed the unpleasant task of informing the bereaved woman of her loss. He had done it several times during his career, but would rather have a tooth pulled. There was no easy way to announce that a loved one was dead, and worse, that they had been murdered. It more than often generated a look of total disbelief, confusion and mind-numbing shock. It was not information that the brain could easily assimilate and neatly file away. It was a life-changing experience that put all day-to-day and mundane priorities into perspective; the ultimate attention-grabber.
“We need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Freeman,” Pete said. “The sooner we follow up on what happened, the more chance we have of finding out who murdered your daughter.”
Sylvia closed her eyes for a second, then stepped back into the hallway and inclined her head to invite Pete and Errol inside. Her mouth was a paper-cut line, and muscles in her cheeks corrugated as she gritted her teeth and fought the emotions that raged within and threatened to overwhelm her.
Sylvia ushered them into a light and airy lounge, took a seat on a large cream, leather chair and waited until they sat opposite her on a matching three-seater settee. A long, glass-topped coffee table filled the space between them.
“I really do not think I can be of any further help,” Sylvia said before Pete spoke. “Marsha only telephones me once a week, and visits me very infrequently. She is a very busy young woman.”
It was not lost on Pete or Errol that the woman was speaking in the present tense. It was too s
oon for her adapt to speaking about her daughter as someone who no longer existed.
Pete inwardly cringed. He was positive that the woman was not privy to the fact that her daughter had been a prostitute. This was going to be a bitch. “What line of work was she in?” he asked.
“Marsha runs...my daughter ran a model agency. She used to be a top model herself.”
Pete nodded and fought for inspiration as he took time to jot down what she had said in his notebook. He could work around the truth or be up front and hit her with the facts.
“Do you know of anyone who bore her a grudge or threatened her, Mrs. Freeman?”
Sylvia shook her head. “She was a lovely person. No one could possibly have had any reason to harm her. Marsha’s friends and contacts were not the sort of people who would harm anyone.”
“We believe that Marsha enjoyed a very active social life,” Pete said. “She had an address book that listed a great many men friends...clients.”
“Just what are you implying?”
“That Marsha might have been murdered by someone who knew her intimately. We need―”
Sylvia shot to her feet, causing Pete and Errol to jerk back in their seats. “How dare you imply that my daughter was that type of person,” she shouted. “Get out of my house.”
Neither Pete nor Errol moved or spoke. After a few seconds, Sylvia’s resolve broke and she wilted in a way that made Pete think of a flower’s life filmed by stop-motion photography. Her head and shoulders drooped, and she seemed to age a decade and cease to be the person who had manufactured a front to present to strangers. She became just a disconsolate woman who had lost her child and sat down again and lifted her head to make eye contact with Pete.
“She was a wonderful girl,” she said wistfully. “Her father and I could not have wished for a better daughter. What she did was not what she was. After her modelling career began to falter, she was at a loss as to what to do.”
“So you knew?” Errol said.
“That she worked as an escort? Yes. She was a beautiful woman. Any man would have been proud to be in her company.”
“It went further than that, Mrs. Freeman,” Pete said, almost hating himself for having to inflict even more pain. “Marsha was also known as Trudi Jameson, and was a―”
“Don’t you dare say that word,” Sylvia said, her voice spiked with venom. “What Marsha might or might not have done, didn’t harm anyone. For God’s sake, my daughter is dead. What possible reason would you have to blacken her character?”
“Our only aim is to find the man who murdered her, Mrs. Freeman. We are not being judgmental. Did she ever mention any man who she was afraid of, or who was persistently making nuisance calls, or following her?”
Sylvia shook her head. “She did not confide in me over her personal life. But she never gave the impression that she had any problems. As I said, her father and I did not see a great deal of her. And she would not have been so thoughtless to worry us unduly. She was a very independent, self-reliant person.”
“Is Mr. Freeman at home?” Errol asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. Hugh was in Hong Kong on business when I got the news. He’s flying home.”
Pete made a note: Hugh Freeman/father/Hong Kong?
If it checked out that Marsha’s dad had been abroad on business when she was slain, then he could be eliminated as a suspect. The scenario of a father finding out that his daughter was a whore and subsequently losing the plot was not without precedent.
They left soon after, and Pete’s mobile came to life as he and Errol climbed back into the car.
“Deakin,” he said.
“What’s your location?” Matt asked.
“Outside the Freeman household.”
“Anything?”
“No. I think the mother knew that Marsha was on the game. And the father is supposedly out of the country on business. I’ll check his movements.”
“Okay. I want you and Errol to get over to Marsha’s apartment. Looks like she took video of all the trade that passed through.”
“We looked everywhere, boss.”
“No, we didn’t. I think she will have kept the flash drives and disks close at hand, but hidden the videos. If you can’t find them, then get a team in to rip the place apart. It might be a long shot, but we could have the killer posing for us.”
CHAPTER SIX
She appeared to be dead. Only the thin, glistening string of drool hanging from the side of her mouth and an almost imperceptible trembling of her hands gave away the presence of life. She was curled up; a shaven-headed bag of bones with sunken and dull eyes staring at nothing, looking inward and praying for it to be over with once and for all. Life had long since lost its appeal for Janice Clayton. She eagerly awaited release from the torment, and could hardly recall a former life without pain and humiliation. She had lost everything; her free will, dignity and all human rights. She had been reduced to being little more than an object; a possession of the depraved creature who had stripped her of all hope and aspirations. Time had become elastic. She might have been his captive for a lifetime. And he had only spoken to her once, to condemn her while he worked the glowing cigarette ends into her flesh.
At first, she had attempted to talk to him, to bond on some level and remain a person in his eyes and not become just an object. It had not worked. It was as though he were a deaf mute. She might have been the insentient plaything of a child, to be taken out of a toy box and abused before being returned to the darkness, to wait until she was once more withdrawn and manipulated in any way that gave him some infernal pleasure.
At nineteen, Janice was fast approaching the end of her short life. The attractive and well-proportioned young woman of only three months ago was now a six-stone shadow of her former self. He had stopped feeding her, and her body now subsisted wholly on water. Sores had appeared on her face and body, and her organs were beginning the process of shutting down. Her only remaining ambition was to escape him by slipping into a coma, to be finally liberated and no longer suffering.
Janice mentally retreated from where she lay on a bright red lilo on the boarded floor of the loft. The hissing of the water tank next to her became indistinct, and in her ensuing dream she reinvented it as the gurgling sound of fast-flowing water over the rocks of a stream. She was twelve again and on holiday in the New Forest with her parents. She could feel the prickly heat of the sun on her face and bare arms, and watched occasional cotton wool clouds drift by high above in a denim-blue sky. A movement caused her to look towards the greenery on the far bank of the stream. Leaves were rustled and moved, preceding the appearance of a baby deer. It could have been Bambi. She held her breath and did not move, to be rewarded by the sight of it nervously moving out to the water’s edge, to lap at the cold water.
The idyllic setting froze, became fragmented and was gone. She opened her eyes to the reality of her situation, and to the sight of the naked monster that was once more standing in front of her. She attempted to withdraw, back into dreams of better times, but could not cajole her brain into evading whatever depraved acts or new mutilations were imminent.
It was time. He turned on the loft light from the switch on the landing, unhooked the door and pulled the aluminium ladders down. Climbed up and walked across to where the emaciated whore prisoner – who he had kept in his home for so long – lay asleep on the shit-encrusted lilo. He would miss having accessible material so readily to hand, but it had now become too used and therefore of little further interest to him. That he had slowly starved it of late was primarily to make its impending disposal easier. He had marked it in such an individual and distinctive manner that his work might be recognised if the carcass was recovered, and so he would have to bury it in quicklime or burn it, to eradicate any physical clues that might some day come back to haunt him. Prevention was better than cure. He would not be party to his own downfall.
It looked up at him with beseeching eyes. They were all the same: imperious cunts in n
eed of being taught the error of their ways. Well, he certainly did that. They had met their match the day he selected them to pay for the misery he had been through.
There was little more to be done, save for ending whatever constituted life in the creature that was voiding its bladder in abject fear at the sight of him. Though the power he held over it still caused him to grow hard.
He knelt down on the plastic sheeting that covered the chipboard floor and spoke to it for only the second time since he had initially abducted and brought it into his home.
“Can you hear me?” he asked.
She nodded and began to cry.
“Good. I want you to know that you have given me a great deal of pleasure. But it’s over now. I’m going to set you free.”
Janice could hardly believe that not only was he speaking to her, but was telling her that he intended to let her go. But why was he holding a pair of tights in his hand?
He moved over her, and though hardly able, she managed to roll on to her back and open her legs to accommodate him.
It was only when he looped the tights around her neck and began to strangle her with them that Janice understood. The freedom he had spoken of was purely in the spiritual sense. Even though the deep-seated will to survive generated a feeble and short-lived struggle, she quickly succumbed and was already still and lifeless as he spent himself in the skeletal earthly remains of a victim now beyond suffering.
He lifted the corpse up by an ankle, dragged it across to the open hatch and dropped it down to career off the ladders onto the landing carpet. Within less than half an hour he was ready to transport the now bagged remains to where he had decided to dispose of them.
The body was in the back of the van in a large potato sack, along with the deflated lilo and the plastic sheets that had protected the floor from being contaminated by the faeces and urine. Some seepage had stained the boards, but it was nothing that a scrubbing brush, bleach and a little elbow grease would not remove.