by Anne Randall
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you any idea where Karlie might have been going last night? Did she mention any plans?’
‘Nope.’
‘And what was Karlie’s mood like? Did she seem upset or anxious about anything?’
‘She was fine, she seemed OK.’
‘Do you know why she would be out in Sandyhills?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ever mention the pub, the Coach House, to you? Do you know it?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been there a few times and no, I’ve never heard her mention it. Me and Gary are bikers. We hang out at the bars.’
‘But not Karlie?’
‘Karlie wasn’t a biker, and she didn’t drink or smoke. She was a great girl. Friendly and chatty.’
‘What did she chat about? Did she every mention a group name of the Kill Kestrels?’
‘Nope. She talked about her parents, mainly her dad. She said she wanted to get a programme made about how he was killed. A kind of a re-enactment to jog folks’ memories. Get herself some publicity and maybe get someone convicted of his murder.’
‘Did she ever mention that she was frightened or scared of anyone?’
‘Never.’ Pierce swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know who would do anything to harm her. She was a good girl.’
‘You were close?’
‘You could say that.’
‘You were involved with her?’
‘We were pals. I liked her a lot. If you’re looking for a confession, that’s about it. I loved her.’
‘Was it reciprocated?’
‘What do you think? This here—’ Pierce jerked a thumb at the dilapidated caravan ‘—this is all I’ve got. She was twenty-eight and beautiful and there’s not a hope she’d have gone for a wreck like me. I knew that, so I never even told her. And, before you ask, I was filming with the crew last night at a hotel in Milngavie. Later, I was here all night, but if you’re looking for an alibi, you need to talk to them.’ He gestured to the field of cows. ‘It was just me and Sam.’
‘Sam?’
‘My dog.’
‘How did she get on with the other people she worked with?’
‘Fine.’
‘No arguments?’
‘The usual banter. Karlie wound Gary up, said she was going to drop him in it with his missus if he didn’t up her wages. The missus doesn’t know about his sideline.’
‘And how did Mr Ashton respond?’
Pierce shrugged. ‘Listen, I know how this sounds . . .’
They waited.
‘Gary said he’d kill her if she did, but he was only pissing about. It was cheap talk. He was full of it.’
‘You did time for assault?’
‘So?’
‘Care to tell me what that was about?’
‘Domestic. I was set up. Ex-girlfriend called the cops, said I punched her. Her word against mine. The cops believed her. The bitch was lying.’
They carried on for a few minutes, but Pierce gave them nothing, no insights.
Back in the car, Boyd started the engine and coughed. ‘Fuck’s sake, this car stinks now.’ They had carried the shit on the soles of their feet and now the car did indeed give off a strong odour.
‘How come Wheeler and Ross get all the good stuff and we get the duff visits?’
‘Promotion,’ muttered Robertson, vainly trying to sponge some of the wet from his trouser leg with a scrunched-up tissue. Finally, he gave up and tossed it out of the window.
‘Where to now, Batman?’ asked Boyd.
‘Will Reid’s next up. What do you reckon about Ashton’s cheap talk?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Boyd, turning the car back towards the road. ‘Could be nothing. Could be she meant it and was blackmailing him. As far as motives go, it wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘You have Johnny Pierce for a suspect?’
‘Maybe.’
‘The assault? Says he was set up.’
‘They all say that.’ He switched on the radio.
‘Earlier today, Hugo Ponsensby-Edward responded to the dramatic resignation of disgraced MP, Nathan Whatley. Mr Whatley said it was with a heavy heart that he’d made the most difficult decision of his life . . .’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The McIver, Moroccan Room
Difficult Decisions
The empty champagne bottle was resting in a silver ice bucket on one of the low side tables. A half-empty glass stood beside it. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward was thrilled that he’d delivered such a resounding speech on family values. To stand firm, one had to make difficult decisions, he’d told them. He’d completely nailed it. Nathan Whatley had resigned two hours ago, complaining that he had suffered from a moment of temporary weakness and it was a difficult decision. Well, they all had difficult decisions to make. Even his own wife, Octavia, had had to make one. Understanding that he had ‘immensely important work to do’, she had returned to London with their children and tomorrow would give an interview with local television about their shared family values. Hugo would return to his constituency soon, but for now he was free to celebrate his moral victory. He knew that Nathan Whatley would also need to resign from two lucrative consultancies, Saffar and Reid Woodstock. Hugo had already approached them, money in the bank.
But now to the question in hand. Bath or shower?
The redhead was naked and lay on the mosaic floor. The tiles were bright and glittered in the gentle lamplight. She was bound by her ankles and wrists. Hog-tied. Secure, safe. Only her mouth was fixed open. Golden baths or golden showers, call them what you will, they were about humiliation and degradation and he couldn’t get enough. He felt the warm stream pass from him towards her. Replayed the image of Nathan Whatley resigning. Heard the redhead gag, kept going. Revelled in it. The warmth. The smell. The power.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Erotic Asphyxiation
The anger in the CID suite was almost palpable. Stills from Karlie Merrick’s porn videos had been splashed across the papers, and there was no doubt that the appeal for information had taken a different turn. Images of a sultry, sexy woman pouted out at them, and veiled references to prostitution had been made.
‘The online edition now mentions her father’s underage porn stash,’ said a uniformed officer.
‘I pity Beth Swinton,’ said Ross. ‘The poor woman’s being bloody harassed.’
‘The press has been calling, asking the usual shitty questions about Karlie’s personal life. If she was on the game? Or if John Merrick’s collection of porn included pictures of his eight-year-old naked? I mean come on!’ the officer fumed.
Wheeler sipped her coffee. Karlie Merrick’s death had indeed become a bloody media circus. A few of the tabloids had suggested that she’d been a sex worker and had been in a dangerous situation. Wheeler knew that the police needed the media coverage, but she was troubled by the way the reporters were twisting the story. Karlie had gone from a twenty-eight-year-old murder victim to a dead porn star, and crudely pixelated pictures of her naked body had been published gratuitously alongside information about her murder. Two former pupils at her school had sold their story to the Chronicle, citing that the Karlie they’d known had been a manipulative liar who garnered attention at any cost. Mention had also been made of the suicide of the classmate falsely accused of bullying. ‘The mechanics of a twisted mind’ was how one girl had described Karlie’s behaviour.
Stewart strode to the front of the room. ‘What’s been the response to the appeal?’
‘Five folk called in, boss.’
‘Anything?’
‘Bloody time wasters. Jake Munro confessed to killing Karlie Merrick.’
‘Jake confessed again?’ asked Boyd.
‘Must be a record,’ said Stewart. ‘That’s four now. He’s desperate to be famous and this is his route in to what he considers the hall of fame.’
‘Bloody nutter,’ muttered Ross.
‘I’ve seen the news,’ said Stewart. ‘K
arlie Merrick has morphed from tragic victim to scintillating porn star slash sex worker, complete with nude pictures. Let’s ignore the media’s take on our victim and concentrate on solving the crime. In real terms, what do we have?’
Boyd spoke. ‘Johnny Pierce witnessed Karlie threatening to drop Gary Ashton in it with his missus.’
‘Go on.’
‘Said he’d kill her if she did.’
‘Bring Ashton into the station,’ said Stewart. ‘If our victim intended to blackmail him, I want him in here.’
‘Pierce reckoned it was just banter, that Karlie used it as leverage to try to get a pay rise.’
A uniformed officer updated the board.
‘Even so,’ said Stewart. ‘Anything else?’
‘Pierce had a thing for her, said she didn’t know,’ said Robertson.
‘Did he now? Jealous type?’ said Stewart.
‘Said he never told her, but he’s got previous for assaulting an ex-girlfriend.’
‘Your take on Pierce?’ asked Stewart.
‘Bit of a waster,’ said Robertson. ‘No alibi.’
‘Anything from Karlie’s flat?’
Wheeler spoke. ‘No sign of a break-in or struggle. If she was killed there, she let him or her in. Ordinary flat, usual detritus. Loads of DVDs – our victim was a big fan of reality TV shows. Nothing about the Kill Kestrels. And there was nothing erotic in the flat,’ said Wheeler. ‘No sex toys, nothing kinky. It doesn’t reflect what Gary Ashton told us, that our victim was involved in the S&M scene.’
‘What do we know about it?’ asked Stewart.
‘Pretty much just the clubs in the city centre. Leather and Lace, Pump It, The Tiger and Bondage Inc. That sort of stuff. Uniform are out there now doing the rounds. Nothing so far.’
‘Has anyone come forward claiming to be her boyfriend or partner?’ asked Stewart.
‘No one, boss.’
‘What about this guy Will Reid? Anything on him?’
‘Not as much as a parking ticket,’ said Robertson. ‘Seems a very sensitive guy. He seemed genuinely gutted about Karlie’s death.’
‘A front?’
‘Very much doubt it.’
Boyd spoke. ‘Does anyone remember the Marcus Newton case from a decade ago?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Stewart. ‘Why?’
‘Newton was part of the whole BDSM scene in Glasgow. He was eventually done for killing a woman named Amy Dawson.’
‘I remember reading about the case in the Chronicle,’ said a young female officer. ‘I’d never heard of strappado before the case.’
‘Strap what?’ asked Ross.
‘Strappado. Apparently it’s some kind of BDSM practice,’ said the officer. ‘The Chronicle had a follow-up article a few months after Marcus Newton was put away. He’d started to get more fan mail than any other prisoner. Women wanted to date him or marry him, and there was some sort of an altercation with the other prisoners who reckoned they should be getting their fair share of the fan mail.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ross muttered. ‘Who writes to killers? Is it some kind of nutter syndrome?’
‘There are a few syndromes,’ said Wheeler. ‘The one that you’re referring to is hybristophilia.’
‘Right,’ said Ross. ‘It actually has a name, for when folk are complete nut jobs. That’s a consolation.’
‘Its when someone is turned on by the idea of being with a person who has done something wrong,’ said Wheeler.
‘Like rape or murder?’ asked an officer from the back of the room.
‘Exactly,’ said Wheeler. ‘So I guess it’s the condition Marcus Newton’s fans suffer from, but there are a number of other choices.’
‘Christ, this just gets better.’ Ross sipped his coffee.
Wheeler continued, ‘Asphyxiophilia or erotic asphyxiation, which we think Karlie was involved with.’
‘Breath control during sex,’ said Boyd. ‘It’s when you choke your partner and they get a massive high and go on to orgasm in a great way.’ He looked around the room. Realised that the team were all staring at him, stopped right there.
‘Go on,’ said Ross.
‘I mean, it’s just me and the fiancée but it’s great. She’s a real fan because of the depth of the orgasm and—’
‘Just stick to the facts,’ said Wheeler.
‘Right,’ said Boyd. ‘Because of the lack of oxygen to the brain, the orgasm is more powerful. Believe me, it’s effective.’
‘And alone?’ said Robertson. ‘If it was just you by yourself, maybe when the fiancée’s out?’
‘Alone, it’s fantastic. It’s called auto-erotic asphyxia. It’s phenomenal, all you do is—’
The room was silent. Boyd got it. ‘Fuck you lot. I was just trying to be helpful.’
‘And you were,’ said Wheeler, ‘if a little too enthusiastic about the subject. Is this Marcus Newton still in prison or out?’
‘No idea,’ said Boyd.
‘Then get on to it and find out,’ said Wheeler. ‘But realistically, though, how much do we really know about the porn industry?’
‘You mean, apart from Boyd and his fiancée’s foray into erotic asphyxiation?’ said Ross.
A cheer went around the room.
Boyd gave him the finger.
‘I mean, not as consumers,’ said Wheeler. ‘What happens to the people involved?’
Silence.
‘I thought so, so we need to get ourselves up to speed. Go to it.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Downtime
Wheeler’s flat was in the Merchant City. The Italian restaurant across the road was just closing and the night air was heady with the scent of flowers.
‘God, but that plant’s strong,’ said Ross.
‘Night-flowering jasmine,’ she told him. ‘Cestrum nocturnum, if you want to know its Latin name, though it’s not actually jasmine.’
‘And you know all this, because?’
‘The owner of the restaurant told me; he’s crazy proud of those plants.’
Inside her flat, it was cool. Wheeler crossed to her CDs, selected John Coltrane’s Blue Train. The title track filled the room. ‘Pinot Gris OK, Ross?’
‘Yep, anything to be honest.’
In the kitchen, she checked the fridge for food. There wasn’t much – a pot of olives, some cheese. A bag of cashews in the cupboard. She located a couple of options in the freezer. Tried to ignore the headache which had returned. ‘Looks like it’s got to be pizza and garlic bread.’
‘Fine.’ Ross got to work, tipped the olives into a bowl, the cashews into another, and put them on a tray with the wine. ‘I’ll take these through.’
A few minutes later, they were settled on the sofa. Wheeler sipped her wine and felt the knot of tension in her shoulders begin to relax. ‘You reckon Ashton is our killer?’
‘He struck me as a complete sleazeball.’
‘You two certainly didn’t hit it off.’
‘He’s a heartless git; all that talk about the business and how the new legislation might affect his profit margins, while a friend or, at the very least, a colleague’s body lies cold and silent in the mortuary. It creeped me out.’
‘Yes, he doesn’t get my award for person of the year, but do you think he’s capable of murder?’
‘He did threaten her.’
‘Stewart had him back in. Ashton claimed it was just banter.’
‘Hell of a coincidence.’ Ross grabbed a couple of nuts.
‘Certainly, I think he might be capable of being exceptionally detached, but his alibi stacks up – he was filming until late and then went home to his partner.’
‘She could be lying to cover him?’
‘He was being inauthentic in some way; the upset bit didn’t ring true.’
‘Could just be he’s just a heartless bastard?’ said Ross. ‘And Johnny Pierce had the hots for her and he’d no alibi.’
‘Unless you count the cows. Motive?’
‘Un
requited love?’ Ross sipped his wine, reached for the olives. ‘What about the dolls and the teddy bears? And the Braveheart ducks? A bit childish for a woman of twenty-eight.’
‘A lot of women like stuffed toys,’ said Wheeler.
‘What about Newton?’
‘Marcus Newton’s still inside, so there’s one suspect we can cross off our list,’ said Wheeler.
‘And Ian Bunyan was at an overnight party, so he’s out of the loop.’
‘Doesn’t mean it wasn’t him,’ said Wheeler.
‘True, he could have ordered her killing,’ said Ross.
‘Nothing sticks to Bunyan.’
‘I know, Tefal-coated.’
‘Josh Alden?’
‘I reckon he’s in the clear.’
Finally, after the pizza and garlic bread were finished and they’d found themselves going in decreasing circles, Wheeler broached the subject. ‘Are you going for the advertised DI post?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘You’ve got acting experience, Ross. You could do it well enough.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wheeler. Damned by faint praise.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I think you’d be a great asset to them.’
Ross leaned forward, refilled their glasses. ‘It would mean leaving the station.’
‘It’s your career.’
‘You trying to get rid of me?’
‘What’s the problem?’
Ross glanced at her. ‘How would you manage without me?’
‘True, I’d have to depend on Boyd and Robertson.’
‘And that way leads to a nightmare scenario.’
‘Seriously, Ross, are you going for it?’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready to leave our team.’
‘Because?’
He drained his glass. ‘I’m off. See you in the morning.’
After he left, she loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and took her coffee through to the living room. Changed the CD to Thelonious Monk’s Brilliant Corners, selected track three and sat back as ‘Pannonica’ began. The night felt warm. Karlie Merrick’s life had been extinguished far too soon, but by whom? Who had killed her and why? Wheeler spoke out loud. ‘Why did your life end in this way? What happened?’ She sipped her coffee, closed her eyes against the pounding headache and listened to the music. Something would shift in the upcoming investigation, she knew it. She just had to wait and see what the shift exposed. Her mobile chirped a text.