Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  .

  DEAD BLONDE

  By Beck Robertson

  Copyright © 2013 by Beck Robertson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Publication, 2013

  PROLOGUE

  She didn’t know he was about to kill her. He stepped soundlessly behind the blonde, between chrome coated elevator doors, his shoes gliding over polished grey marble. As she turned to the control panel to select her destination with a well-manicured fingernail, he craned his neck forward to inhale her scent. The sweet musky aroma curled around his nostrils pleasantly, it was familiar to him, it smelled of her.

  She stood waiting as the doors closed and the elevator started to descend. His eyes, raking over her, took in her elegant profile, her smooth alabaster skin. He observed the details of her; breasts round and full, encased in a white shirt half a size too small and straining at the buttons, begging to be released. Her hair piled upon the top of her head, loose tendrils of spun gold escaping and caressing a slim neck. A hair pin edging its way out of the bun; aching to be plucked.

  It’s an abomination, unnatural. His mother’s voice in his head again. Would she never shut up?

  Fingering the knife in his pocket as the elevator climbed downwards, the sharp edge grated the pad of his finger. He clenched his fists, feeling the rage building inside him. How dare she? The calm of the Brahms sonata being piped through to the elevator’s occupants came in sharp contrast to his raggedly spiking mood. The feeling, rising within him, was irrepressible, the urgency to possess her climbing rapidly, like his blood pressure.

  Unaware of his watchfulness she fumbled around in the depths of her handbag, as if she were trying to locate something. The tilt of her lovely face tipped downwards in profile, made him catch his breath. Boldly he stepped forward, pulling the blade out of his pocket and placing one arm around her throat, restraining her tightly against him. He didn’t hesitate as he drew the blade across, slicing her throat from ear to ear.

  The blood spurted violently as the blade bit into her jugular vein, spraying the shiny, mirrored walls. The sonata seemed to be slowing down and he felt as if the world had momentarily stopped. Blanched, devoid of colour. The only bright spots, the only things that existed at all were her and him, and they existed in a lurid blur of light. He held her there, his head bent over her tumble of blonde hair as she struggled pathetically in his arms. Her body weakened with every kick.

  He held her there as she gasped her last, her mouth opening obscenely as her fingers scratched at empty air. Drinking her in, his eyes memorised every atom as her body became deadweight in his arms. Finally in that last second, he felt the serenity that inevitably washed over him each time. A feeling of satisfaction. Of completion. It felt like peace.

  The temporary joy washing over him now would not last long though, he knew. Previous encounters had taught him this. He must act quickly. Stuffing the claret stained blade back in his pocket, he lowered the body reverently on to the ground where it slumped.

  Peeling off thin black leather gloves, he rolled them deftly over his slender wrists to reveal the white latex medical gloves worn beneath. Retrieving a folded carrier bag from within the pocket of his coat, he shook it out hurriedly, unbuttoning the coat with speed and shrugging it off his shoulders, then hastily rolling it up and thrusting it inside.

  Reaching in to his pocket he pulled out the red velvet box, opening the lid and plucking the little gold necklace from its black satin cradle. Bending down he placed it around her neck, his fingers scrabbling around for the catch as he fastened it. Pausing a second, he considered her, tilting his head to one side, before reaching down again and plucking out the hairpin. Long blonde hair tumbled down, some of the strands dampening and becoming bloodied by the wound in her neck as they fell. Peeling off the medical gloves hurriedly, he stuffed them into the bag to join the others.

  The elevator stopped midway between the floor below and the one above, then, after some deliberation began to descend steadily again, taking its occupants, one dead, one living, into the very bowels of the building. Stopping at the basement, the doors opened with a hiss, and with one last parting glance at his handiwork, he was out and free, his smallish head with its neat cap of dark hair darting first left, then right, as expertly he scoped his environment.

  The CCTV cameras this side of the building weren’t working, he knew, they hadn’t been working properly for three days now. The security firm wouldn’t be here to fix them until Friday morning. Not that it mattered he thought, pulling the scarf around his mouth. Confidently he made his way toward the exit, determined no one would stop him now. Exhilaration throbbed through him like a pulse. This was better than any high.

  Reaching the small metal turnstile, he flipped it easily, passing through unchecked. Deftly fleeing the horrifying tableau in the elevator, he escaped into the relative anonymity of the bustling London street outside.

  The lift, called by some unseen patron, closed its doors again and began to ascend, the human cargo within encased within sturdy walls. The blonde’s now still body lay slumped on the floor as the elevator ferried it upwards, a tendril of bloodied blonde hair caressing the corpse’s cheek in a close embrace, one black lace stocking top visible beneath the hem of the satin pencil skirt newly raised askew.

  CHAPTER ONE - DEACON

  Deacon stared at the photograph of the corpse pinned to the white board on the incident room wall, as he scratched at the black stubble on his chin. Something about this case seemed familiar though he couldn't place it exactly. A detail he remembered seeing somewhere before, buried somewhere in his subconscious, he couldn’t quite recall it.

  The disquieting feeling had been nagging away at him ever since the very first victim had been discovered. The body had been found in a popular West London Park, by the horrified grounds man who had been attempting to grit the pathway. Lisa Doake’s corpse had been left right in the middle of the gravel path, a pool of blood from her opened up jugular congealing on the ground beside her.

  Glancing up at the clock on the wall he saw it was 10pm. He knew he should go home. Maria would be waiting for him, but his workaholic tendencies meant old habits tended to die hard. Ever since the Chief Super had put him in charge of the case he’d found himself working later and later, sometimes not getting home much before midnight. He considered giving her a call to let her know he was on his way at least, his hand reaching out for the desk phone.

  Just then he saw Detective Constable Tom Barnes approaching his desk, holding a piece a paper out in front of him. Barnes was a young, enthusiastic junior officer who often stayed far later than he should in an effort to impress. He’d only joined the Met’s Serious Crimes Squad last year and was eager to learn everything he could. Eyeing the dark haired young rookie, he nodded at him in acknowledgement.

  “Working late again eh?” he said raising his eyebrow at the lad.

  Barnes grinned.

  “Always Sarge. But what would you do without me eh? Here, got the print out you asked Doyle for earlier,” he said, thrusting the piece of paper forward.

  He took it; “Cheers. Did you get anything on the CCTV yet for the Wheeler murder?”

  The younger guy shook his head.

  “Nah not yet, maintenance is supposed to be contacting the security firm that monitors the building.”

  “Fuck sake it’s a murder enquiry not a bloody village fete. What’s wrong with people don’t they understand the meaning of urgency?”

  “Dunno Sarge but I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow mor
ning and try and put the squeeze on em.”

  “Good lad. You getting off in a minute?”

  “Unless you need me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nah, you go home and enjoy yourself. Crack open a couple of cans and watch a dirty movie. Or whatever it is you single lads do for fun?”

  Barnes grinned again.

  “You off now too Sarge?”

  “Not just yet. Got some stuff I need to finish up here first.”

  “Do you think we’re any closer to finding him?”

  “The slasher?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like fuck we are. He’s harder to catch than a smile from Beeton.”

  Beeton was the Chief Superintendent at the station. The man wasn’t known for his good temper.

  “Alright well catch you later Sarge.”

  “Yeah later Barnes, night.”

  He looked down at the print out, his eyes rapidly scanning over it with interest. Listed on it were the victim’s names, ages, former occupations, along with various other personal facts. There must be something linking them all, anything, a pattern, some kind of clue.

  Lisa Doakes, 29 years old and married, had been working as a sports physiotherapist on Harley Street when she’d been killed, on that July evening. Murdered during her usual jog through the London park close to where she lived. At first they had thought the killing was a one off, then the killer had struck again, and he continued to strike. A new victim had been killed each month for the last seven.

  Katerina Murray, an art student studying fashion design at Central St Martins, had been the second body they’d found. Dead in a Soho alleyway, on her way home from a night out drinking with friends.

  Then AnnMarie Langham, 26, and a retail assistant in a children’s bookstore had been found, her throat slit on Clapham Common. She had been due to be married the following month.

  Tanya Beale, 22, a drug addict and part time call girl was the fourth body to be discovered, after she’d been reported missing by a friend. She’d been dead for a week when her decomposing corpse was discovered in her Bayswater flat, the throat cut in the same way as the others.

  Anna Sharp, only 19 years old, had been dating her high school sweetheart while working as a junior assistant at an independent health magazine, when she’d been cut down in the car park of the magazine publisher’s multi-storey office building in Islington.

  Mya Chamino, 26, and a Polish immigrant, had been the sixth victim found. She had been working as a massage therapist at a popular London health spa, when she was discovered face down in a pool of her own blood in the small alleyway that ran behind a busy Chinese restaurant.

  And Louise Wheeler, the latest victim, had been 27 years old when her corpse was discovered, displayed ceremoniously in the elevator of the London City office, left there as if the killer were proud of his work. Almost as if he wanted to brag.

  He frowned, the wrinkles in his brow furrowing even deeper, as the expression accentuated them. Years of stress, hard work, and heavy smoking had all taken their toll on his appearance, conspiring to render him looking every bit his 45 years. His once coal black hair was now greying-at-the temples, and his brown eyes were bracketed by deeply etched wrinkles. The long scar on the side of his face that ran from under his left eye to just above his lip, was yet another unwanted reward from his years of long service in the force.

  Maria didn’t seem to mind the lines though, or the scar. And he had only had eyes for her since as long as he could remember, ever since Zoe, his ex-wife had left him fifteen years ago. Zoe had fallen for the hard sell of a slick advertising sales manager called Kevin. Kevin had taken her out and shown her a good time, while he had been putting in the long hours necessary to carve out a career in the force, so he could provide for his new wife and baby son.

  Eventually Kevin had whisked both mother and child away to New York, when he’d relocated there on business. Brandon, their son, had been 9 months old at the time. That August he would be 15, and he missed him fiercely. Periodically Zoe would fly over, once, maybe twice a year, and he’d get to spend some time with his son. He hadn’t seen Brandon in nearly a year now, though he thought about him often. The boy had his wiry dark hair and stubborn nature, but he hoped fervently that he hadn’t inherited his tendency to repress things.

  Ploughing all his energies into his work, in an effort to distract himself from the loneliness that threatened to consume him after Zoe left, he’d met Maria completely by chance, at an art exhibition. The one he'd only gone to because of his sister nagging at him to come and see some of the work she had displayed there. He remembered how he’d first seen her, standing there by the display of her sculpture. Politely chatting with a journalist from the local newspaper, who’d been asking some boring nonsense, what the inspiration behind her work had been and such.

  Grinning at the memory, he recalled, how in typical Maria fashion she’d been answering the man's questions, not wanting to seem impolite. Then, spying Deacon, she had calculated her opportunity to escape.

  "Him!" she had announced, pointing at him, “this man it’s all him,” she said, in her high melodious voice, laughing and clutching at his forearm, as she guided them both away from the bemused journalist.

  "God thank you for saving me from that bloody bore," she whispered, winking conspiratorially at him.

  They’d spent the whole night together deep in conversation after that, only pausing for copious refills of the free champagne being offered around, that was the custom, he would come to discover at these types of events. He’d been quite entranced by her, dazzled by this lovely, exotic creature that was so unlike him, so far removed from the gritty, drab, grey reality of his everyday existence.

  They had a good relationship, a solid one, he thought with satisfaction. Although certainly it hadn’t been without its share of problems. He knew he had frustrated her, his obsession with work casting a shadow over the decade they had spent together. She resented how he would frequently bring his troubles home with him and brood. On bad days, she’d nag him that he wasn't "there" enough. Sometimes he wondered if she meant both physically and mentally. He tended to bottle his emotions up it was true.

  He stared back down at the printout in front of him. The only things all the victims had in common, was that they had been female and between the ages of 18-30. And all of them had been found wearing a small gold necklace, with a little gemstone suspended from the fine, gold chain around their necks.

  Each girl's necklace had featured a different stone; Lisa's a Peridot, Tanya’s Sapphire, and Mya's a Tourmaline. Katerina’s had been a Topaz, AnnMarie’s a Turquoise, while Anna's had been a Garnet. And the latest victim, Louise Wheeler, had an Amethyst stone around her neck, suspended from that same gold chain.

  They had tried to trace the maker of the necklaces down, but to no avail. After hours of searching they had had to concede it must be custom work, possibly bought abroad, since the gold wasn't hallmarked.

  The setting which held the stone’s was the same for each victim; a claw foot that clasped the little gem, holding it snugly in place. The chain was a delicately worked but simple linked design, similar to those sold in most high street jewellery shops, though the gold working was fine.

  According to forensics, the killer had placed them around the victims necks post mortem. He knew from his experience that probably meant all seven women had not known their killer, at least not known him well enough to accept a gift from him. But then what was the significance of the placing of the necklace at all?

  He supposed this was what criminal profilers would term a calling card, though that seemed the stuff of crime novels and thriller movies, not real life. Did serial murderers actually operate that way? Sitting there, thinking, an idea came. He remembered Maria mentioning something once, after he'd given her a sapphire ring as a present for her birthday.

  Turning to his computer monitor he hit the power on button, and the machine blinked back into life again, com
ing out of its self-imposed hibernation. The familiar log in screen flashed up. He punched in his user ID and password, then opened up the search engine, typing something in and hitting enter.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he read it. Could this be the pattern he’d been looking for? What did it mean though, what was the reason behind it all?

  Birthstones By Month, the page proclaimed, in gaudy emerald green and ruby, the font glittering and winking like an overdressed Christmas tree. January was supposed to be Garnet, Amethyst was February, June Pearl, and there it was Tourmaline. Mya was born in October wasn't she, and she had been found wearing a Tourmaline. And look, wait, there was September’s, a Sapphire, Tanya had been born in September like Maria, and hadn't she been found with a Sapphire stone round her neck hanging from that same damn gold chain?

  He remembered Maria squealing with delight as she’d opened up the blue velvet box.

  "Deacon its lovely….my birthstone," she had said, smiling up at him.

  But it had been completely by chance he’d picked sapphires, he hadn't known. He hadn't known, but the killer could have, couldn’t he? Could their birthdates be the reason why all the victims had been found wearing the same sort of chain, yet set with a different stone?

  Looking round the office, he saw that most of the day shift had long gone home, to their wives and husbands, their respective families. Where was his partner Doyle when he needed her? He didn't understand what the new discovery might mean, didn’t know whether it was even relevant at all. Surely it had to mean something though? After all they didn't have much else to go on at the moment. It had to be some kind of lead.

  To his surprise he spied DC Barnes walking back through the office, his arms laden with paperwork.

  “You still here?” he asked the younger man.

  “Yeah Sarge, had to find something in this lot.” Barnes gestured to the pile of papers he held. He peered closer reading the stamp imprinted upon the top sheet.