Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  Picking up the card, he saw the taxi driver get out of the cab.

  “Who sent this?” he gave the man a hard look.

  “Dunno Sir. Didn’t catch a good look at him. Hailed me down on the corner near Hyde Park.”

  Fumbling his fingers ripped open the small envelope. He slid out the stiff white card.

  13:45-46 These violent delights have violent ends. Was it a date? A time? What did it mean?

  “Wait here I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me,” he said, looking at Bart, as the man nodded nervously. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket he hit speed dial. He needed Doyle on this. The phone rang several times unanswered. That was odd. Doyle usually always answered her phone. Maybe she’d run out of battery. He hit speed dial again, her back up. Most of them on the squad carried a back-up phone. The phone rang out into empty air. Still no answer. His suspicions were instantly aroused.

  “Stay here I’ll call for a car to pick you up,” he warned the man, who stood there and nodded, looking slightly confused. What the fuck? She was usually always contactable. All of them that worked on the Squad had to be.

  Where the fuck was she and why wasn’t she picking up? I need a fucking cigarette. If ever there was a moment for a cigarette it was now. He also needed to get to Doyle's house fast. Grabbing his jacket from the end of the sofa where he'd thrown it last he slipped his feet into his shoes, and bolted out the door again, swiping his car keys as he went.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE – BIRTHSTONE

  This was the twelfth. The one he’d been waiting for. His pearl. Walking up to the house, his stomach felt tight, the syringe he had tucked inside the sleeve of his jumper reassuring him slightly. They were closing in on him now. But he wanted them to know. Wanted her to know. It was time to step out of the shadows. Time for it to end where it had all begun. Bracing himself, he rang the bell.

  Jenny Doyle answered the door, her blonde waves looking slightly damp, as if she had recently showered, her complexion flushed, the skin poreless, even without a hint of make-up. She wasn’t one for artificial adornment, but then she didn’t really need it. She looked slightly startled to see him standing there, as she raised her eyebrow at him.

  “You?” she said staring in disbelief. She was a tough one, but everyone had an Achilles heel. You could find out what someone’s weakness was quite easily if you studied them long enough. Some people didn’t even bother to hide it that well. He flashed her a thin, nervous looking smile.

  “Can I come in?, he said, looking around the street. Deserted. Perfect. This would be even easier.

  “How the hell did you know where I lived?” He bent his head forward as if he were about to impart something he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

  “You’re not hard to find. I was going to call you but I wanted to speak to you in person. It’s about Louise Wheeler,” he said, keeping his voice low. Nodding, she motioned him inside.

  “Yeah come in,” she ventured and he followed as she walked through to the little kitchenette, snatching a tortoiseshell hair clip from one of the counter-tops and pulling her hair back to expose her neck. He noticed the back of it was covered in a fine coating of little downy blonde hairs.

  “You look nice,” he said, and she smiled, perhaps a little oddly. He’d better act fast, he didn’t want her suspicions to become aroused.

  “Go on through to the lounge,” she said, gesturing to him.

  “You got a glass of water or something? My throats a little dry,” he said, looking at her.

  “Yeah sure hang on a moment, I’ll get it.” She turned to walk back into the kitchen and went to the draining board, reaching for an upturned glass.

  Now. Coming up behind her he grabbed her by the waist as she tried to struggle. Holding her firmly, he stuck the needle in the side of her neck, pressing down on the top of the syringe as he injected the contents into her vein.

  She stopped struggling suddenly, her body going slack in his arms. Looping her arm around his neck his hoisted her to her feet with some difficulty. It was a good job he was in shape. Now he had to get her out of here smoothly, make it look like she was drunk or something if anyone saw them, so as not to arouse suspicion.

  Flicking on the air conditioning and starting the engine, he reversed out between the black Ford Ka and silver Renault that were sandwiching his Mazda. Navigating his way between the two vehicles successfully, the car started off down the street, its engine purring. He could smell her perfume, it smelt clean and sweetly spicy, like scented linen. Snatching occasional glances at her, he steered the vehicle through the streets.

  “Any particular music you enjoy listening too?” he enquired to her unconscious form, “Red Hot Chilli Peppers ok?” he asked, as his hand reached out for the mp3 player.

  The song “Californication” flooded the car and he grinned, tapping his foot as he started to sing. The drive to Chertsey should take under an hour, but if she woke up he had more of the Demerol up his sleeve. Quite literally too, he had tucked another of the syringes inside the sleeve of his jumper for easy access just in case. One never could be too sure of these things. So far, so good though, everything seemed to be going well. A good omen.

  Keeping his eyes on the road, he pulled out from behind an articulated lorry that was trying to navigate its way through the traffic. It wouldn’t do to get stuck behind a heavy goods vehicle; they had to get there as soon as possible. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he swerved the car, they were out onto the motorway now, heading back to where it had all begun. Not long now.

  A motorbike cut across the Mazda and he was forced to brake hard, the car screeching to a sudden halt. Breathing heavily, he tightened his grip on the wheel as he started to drive off again. Watch it, you don’t want to crash, not now you’re so close. Not like Brynn, his brother, who had died as his car had swerved to avoid a pedestrian, a shadowy figure in black who had run out in front of the hire car he had rented to navigate the winding mountain roads of the Pyrenees.

  But that hadn’t been an accident had it? The airbag that had failed to deploy at the crucial moment as the car had swerved, crashing into the low metal railing that ran most of the length of the steep mountain pass, and plunging over on to rocks below.

  Brynn had been killed almost instantly. He knew, because he’d scrambled down to inspect his brothers lifeless body where the car lay, a steaming wreck dashed on the rocks. There had been no pulse, just a trickle of blood leaking from Brynn’s forehead. He watched, ensuring he wasn’t breathing, before turning away and making back down the pass to the little hillside chalet he’d rented.

  He’d thought once Brynn was out of the way that perhaps his mother would stop favouring his brother and realise he too was worthy of love, her love, perhaps even more worthy. Of course it hadn’t worked out that way. She’d turned on him with even more ferocity when she found out Brynn had been killed, saying it should have been him who was dead.

  She seemed to resent him for his brother’s death, even though she couldn’t possibly have known he was responsible, could she? No one could have known how he’d slipped in secret in the shadows of the night to where the hire car was parked outside Brynn’s chalet, no one had been there to witness him tampering with the car’s emergency deployment system. He should have realised then that she would never be able to love him like a mother should, even after all the effort he’d gone to to make her notice him. Well he’d gotten rid of her too hadn’t he?

  Don’t be so sure about that. You’re not real mother. I killed you remember.

  It wouldn’t do to let his thoughts wander to the past now, he couldn’t make any more stupid mistakes, couldn’t get caught, he’d come too far now. He thought of the little red velvet box in his pocket, he couldn’t wait to see her face as she opened it. She’d say “yes” as he asked her to be his, that one little word that would bind them to each other forever.

  They had always been meant to be together, it was things, people, circumstances, that h
ad gotten in the way. But everything was going to be alright now. Sometimes you had to go back to the beginning to make sense of it all. He stole another gaze at her sleeping profile as he continued to steer them both towards their destination.

  Chertsey, 18 miles, the road sign said as they passed it. He’d have to drive quickly but she should be out for a good hour at least. If she woke he’d need to give her another dose, and shut the other one up some other way.

  If it came down to it he would just have to use another form of persuasion. He smiled as he reassuringly patted the pocket that contained the little pistol, keeping his other hand on the steering wheel as he continued to navigate the Mazda through the stream of traffic that swam towards Chertsey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO – DEACON

  He pulled up outside Doyle's and shut his car door with a bang, sprinting up the small pathway to the ground floor flat's blue painted front door. Lifting his arm he gave a few sharp raps on it, pressing on the doorbell repeatedly for good measure as well, but to his chagrin there was no reply. Bending down, he lifted the flap of the letterbox to shout through it.

  "Jen! You there? It's Gaine." Still no reply. He banged on the door loudly again as the window above Doyle's flat slid open. A head poked out, a woman sporting a huge grey tangle of curls.

  "You stop that banging and go away or I'll call the police," she shouted down to him, waggling a finger.

  Pulling out his badge, he held it up for her inspection. Not that she could probably see it from her vantage point up there, she looked like she was getting on a bit.

  "I am the police madam. Chief Inspector Deacon Gaine. I’m trying to locate one of my officers, Jenny Doyle, she lives here, you might know her?"

  Mollified somewhat, the woman nodded though she still eyed him suspiciously.

  "I do know her, she's a nice girl, she always comes and asks me if she can get my shopping for me when she goes to the supermarket. It's my back you see, I'm not as mobile as I used to be."

  Mentally, he rolled his eyes, this wasn't helping to find Jenny and time was ticking.

  "Sorry to hear that madam," he said, forcing himself to be polite, "but you wouldn't happen to know where Ms Doyle went would you?"

  The woman frowned at him.

  "I don’t think she was very well. A man came to see her in a nice blue car. He went in for a bit and then they both came out and she was leaning on his shoulder. He helped her in the car with him."

  Alarmed now, he felt a bit nauseous. Who had she had gotten in the car with? Why wasn’t she contactable?

  "Thank you Madam," he shouted up to her, "I'm going to have to try and get in to Jenny's flat so there might be a bit of a bang but it's nothing to worry about."

  "How do I know you're a policeman?" Oh for god’s sake, he really didn't have any time to waste.

  "Please feel free to call the police madam if you're worried about my credentials. I'll be sending a squad car along here shortly anyway."

  "Is everything alright with Jenny?" she gasped, clutching her hand to her mouth, "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to her, she’s such a sweet girl. The young man seemed so nice…"

  "I hope she’s alright too madam," he said tightly, "cover your ears," he yelled as he began to shoulder barge the door.

  The inside of Doyle's flat looked pretty usual, piles of paperwork lay on every available surface and laundry that probably would never get around to being ironed sat haphazardly stacked on top of chairs. A bundle of newspapers was threatening to take over the coffee table. Doyle wasn't exactly the most domesticated person that ever was, but she was smart, and she had good instincts. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to get in a car with someone she had so much of a hint of a suspicion about would she?

  Spying the sofa, he felt a pang as he remembered the night they had spent together. If she was in trouble, he was at least partly to blame. After all it was his stupid fucking mistake that night that had led to her putting herself in danger. She would never have let her guard down if he hadn't hurt her feelings like that.

  Looking around the lounge, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, not that he knew what he was hoping to find. Something, anything that would help him track her down, a clue to where he might have taken her.

  Hanging up the phone, he walked through to the little kitchenette. Then he saw them, lying there on the checked brown and white countertop, the green lights from the signals indicating the batteries were charging. Doyle's mobile phones. Shit. His own phone rang then and he pulled it out of his pocket, looking at the display. Barnes again? Perhaps he’d managed to get in touch with Doyle somehow.

  “Barnes?”

  “Sarge did you track down Doyle?”

  “Not yet. What is it?”

  “Thought I should tell you Sarge, I was going to tell Doyle but I’ve found something interesting on the Randall girl.” What now? He didn’t have time for this, he had to find Jenny, she might be in danger.

  “What is it Barnes?”

  “Subpoena came through on those medical records. Not sure what it means exactly but Louise Randall finished gender reassignment surgery back in 2001.”

  Gender reassignment surgery? What the hell was he talking about?

  “You what?”

  “Says here Randall was a transsexual, diagnosed with Gender Identity Disorder back in ‘98. Had testosterone supplementation and underwent surgery to change from female to male. Says here she err he changed his name in ‘99 right after the mastectomy.” His head spun, what was this? Transsexual? Hadn’t that been what the chat show woman had been talking about earlier?

  “What did she change it too?”

  “That’s the part I don’t understand Sarge. Say’s on record Louise took the dead brother’s name. Brynn Randall.” He stood there disbelievingly for a second or two.

  “Sarge?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep, it’s all here, I’ve got it all in front of me on my laptop.” What did it all mean? Was it even possible? Scratching his chin, he thought for a second as he chewed his lip nervously.

  “Barnes?”

  “Yes Sarge?”

  “Call Professor Sara Gateway. Get her to come down to the station if you can. Tell her I need to speak with her, tell her it’s urgent.”

  “Got it. Anything in particular I should tell her?”

  “Brief her, send her everything you’ve got on Randall. And keep trying to track down Doyle. I want all sections on it. She was taken from her flat and driven away in a blue car. Report it as a possible abduction.”

  “Yes Sarge.”

  “And get them to pull up the CCTV from the street.

  “Sarge…” The younger man’s voice was hesitant.

  “What, we haven’t got much time?” he said, feeling slightly irritated.

  “Sarge I can’t, I’m in Basildon.”

  “Basildon? What the fuck are you doing there? Well get down to the station quick smart we need you.”

  “I can’t, Mum’s in hospital. She’s been in an accident.”

  “Shit, everything ok?” Now he felt guilty.

  “It’s her health, she’s suffers from emphysema, and she had a relapse. It’s pretty serious this time. They dunno if she’ll pull through.”

  “Ahh alright, no worries mate. Hope she’s alright. Just brief Gateway for me yeah? I’m going to drive down to Mrs Randall’s.”

  ***

  Knocking on the door, he paced anxiously outside Mrs Randall’s house as he waited for her to answer. It was 9.00PM for fucks sake where was she? And where was Jen? There was no answer. She wasn’t in. But the curtains were still open, the panes covered by the flimsy nets, although no light came from inside. Maybe she’d stepped out somewhere?

  Walking up to the front window, he shone the torch through and peered inside. Everything looked normal, as far as he could make out through the blur of the net, the sofa, the dreary little walls, the mantelpiece. There was something missing though, something that had
been hanging up there?

  Just then something caught his eye. A dark shape slumped on the floor, an accompanying dark patch by the side of it. Was that a person?

  “Mrs Randall!” Hollering, he banged on the door loudly again. Still no answer. Returning to the window, he lifted his arm and brought the torch down hard against the glass. It didn’t shatter. He lifted his arm again. The pane cracked but still didn’t shatter. Tough glass. Lifting his arm a third time, he cracked the torch hard across the window. The pane shattered this time, the glass splintering.

  Hefting himself up onto the ledge, he climbed in. The smell was horrific. And familiar. Rotting flesh.

  Crunching over the glass, he walked a few steps, swinging the beam of the torch around. Then he saw it, lying in a patch of blood. The eye sockets of the blood spattered head stared out hollowly in the traction of the torch’s beam. The head had been severed from the body that lay beside it entirely. The body that in life had been Mrs Randall’s.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO - BIRTHSTONE

  He’d done a rather good job of tying her up. Looking down at her he regarded her still sleeping form with satisfaction. She lay on one side, her wrists bound tightly behind her, a length of rope securing them together. Her ankles were fixed to the metal frame that crested the mattress of the bed, the two separate pieces of rope attached to them knotted tightly around the bars.

  When he’d first seen it he had thought the bed looked like it would be better suited to a hospital ward than a bedroom, with its sombre metal frame. Sally loved it though, and she had loved to adorn it too, winding the various coloured scarfs she collected from charity shops and holidays abroad around the prongs.

  A piece of duct tape was covering most of the lower half of her face; he’d had to do that in case she woke up and started screaming. He didn’t want it there. It obscured her beauty and he didn’t like that at all. But at first it would probably be hard to adjust and so she would naturally be startled. Once he got the chance to explain everything to her it would all be very different. Then he could take off the tape.