by Mark Pearson
He took his key out of his pocket, opened his front door, and went inside.
The scream was cut off very quickly. His hand was around her throat like the strike of a snake. Silencing her to a barely audible gurgle of horrified panic. The sound a kitten might make if you held it under muddy bathwater. Her legs kicked weakly and she felt a sharp pain in her neck. She gasped, fighting for breath, and reached out her right hand, snaggling her fingers in his thick curly hair, but before she could clench her hand and pull, the power seemed to drain from her muscles. Her body flopped like a marionette with its strings cut. He moved forward catching the droop of her body on his chest. She could feel the hardness of his prick as he pressed excitedly against her. Then the lights seemed to dim, she fought to blink her eyes open but, like her leg muscles, they refused to respond. She looked down, drool from her mouth falling to drop on the toe of his snakeskin cowboy boots. She felt a warmth rise from her lower body as though she were being lowered slowly into a very warm bath and then she was aware of nothing at all.
Paul Archer paused for breath, the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes and forcing him to blink. His breathing was ragged, gasping as much for oxygen as with desire. The woman on all fours beneath him was breathing hard too, whimpering, although he could make out no words, the gag he had tied made pretty sure of that. He placed his strong hands on either side of her perfectly shaped buttocks, raising them up to cup her waist and, positioning himself again, began to thrust deep into her, with the relentless and perfunctory rhythm of a gardener using a trowel to dig into hard earth. Stabbing at her. Her breathing was harder now, a yelping sound coming with every thrust, her luxuriant, dark hair flicking with the movement. Archer smiled coldly. Turn and turn about. He wasn't a misogynist, though he had been called one many times. He didn't despise women, he loved them, in fact, especially those that knew their place. And if they didn't, well, he enjoyed teaching them it.
A trickle of sweat ran down his nose and he released one hand to wipe it, wincing as a fresh stab of pain came with the movement. He gripped the woman's body again, not caring if he hurt her as he dug his fingers in and pulled her towards him. He had paid for his pleasures after all, hadn't he? Paid in so many ways.
DAY TWO
DC Sally Cartwright shivered and flapped her arms, trying to spread some warmth into them. Seven thirty in the morning now and she had been freezing her tits off on the heath since six o'clock. An old-fashioned bicycle, complete with front basket, was propped up against a tree with a puncture repair kit open on the ground beside it. A couple of concerned citizens, male naturally, had already offered to help her fix her tyre. She had moved them along. Their motives were not entirely based on the Good Samaritan principle, she guessed, but she also knew that neither of them matched the photofit of the flasher that they had been given by Valerie Manners, and neither looked the type, to be fair. Even so, she was learning that in matters of sexual deviancy you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. The most mild-seeming and normal of men were often capable of appalling crimes. You only had to look at Ted Bundy to see that. She slapped her arms again, unhappy to be made to wear a nurse's uniform, but Delaney, in a particularly filthy mood this morning, had insisted, arguing that the uniform itself might be the trigger. Maybe only nurses provided him with the desire to wag his wienie? Who knew, but she wasn't going to argue with her boss. Not with him in that mood, and what he was saying might well be the case. But if Delaney was right why hadn't the flasher been reported before? Why hadn't other nurses come forward? Either way she still felt a little foolish in the outfit, and was all too aware of her colleagues hidden away in the bushes and trees, looking at her. The honey trap. The wriggly worm on the hook. The bait in black suspenders. Although she had drawn the line when her colleagues had suggested that suspenders were an essential part of the nurse's uniform. Male colleagues, again, of course. But she knew better, and there was absolutely no way she was going to be wearing anything other than a very thick pair of tights and industrial-strength knickers under her skirt at that time of the morning on a cold, wet and windy South Hampstead Heath.
She flapped her arms again, feeling particularly conscious that Danny Vine was over there in the trees somewhere. Hidden, with the others, out of her range of sight, but with a good view of her. She smiled a little to herself as she thought of him. She'd had a good time the night before, being the centre of attention between him and Michael Hill, and she wasn't above playing the two off against each other. She was young after all, she was entitled to a bit of fun, she worked hard enough, God knows, to be allowed to let her hair down now and again, and misbehave a little. Not that playing men against each other was misbehaving, it was redressing the balance, if you asked her. And anyway, she wasn't sure which of them she preferred. Danny Vine was confident, fit, attractive, but he knew it. She could tell he was used to women eating out of the palm of his hand, but she knew how to deal with his type. Michael Hill, on the other hand, was quieter, but that meant he listened, he took interest and really paid attention. And while she didn't normally go for the blond-haired, blue-eyed Nordic type, she couldn't deny she was attracted to him. She was attracted to them both, in fact, so didn't feel any great rush to choose between them. She had gone off for a pizza with Danny after the pub last night but had agreed to go out with Michael tomorrow night for a drink and a curry. She smiled a little to herself again, lost in her thoughts, and then started as someone rustled through the leaves right behind her. She spun round to see a middle-aged, bald man staring at her. He was wearing a bright yellow duffel coat with a Burberry scarf wrapped round his neck.
'Can I help you at all?' he asked.
Sally shook her head. If this was the curly-haired man in his twenties or thirties who had flashed Valerie Manners yesterday morning, then he'd had a really, really bad night. She shook her head. 'No, that's okay, thanks, I've got it covered.' Unconsciously she pulled the cloak she had been given a little tighter around her shoulders.
The man made no move to go. 'I'm very good with punctures. I've got a bike myself. Well, several actually.' He shrugged and smiled. 'You know how it is.'
Sally had absolutely no idea. 'I'll be fine, thanks.'
'You work at the South Hampstead?'
'I'm sorry?'
The man gestured. 'Your uniform.'
Sally sighed, this man obviously wasn't going to go away. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her warrant card and held it out for him to see. 'No, I work at White City police station. I'm a detective constable. And I'm working here.' She didn't hide the impatience in her voice
The man didn't seem fazed, however, he just smiled good-naturedly. 'Oh, I see. Well, I'll let you get on. My name's James Collins. Mr Collins. I'm the obstetric surgical registrar at the hospital. Didn't like to think one of our own was stranded.'
Sally smiled back, embarrassed now. 'Oh, well, thanks again.' She nodded self-consciously as he walked away, she had been sure that the man was a pervert, that he was hitting on her at least. It was the uniform she guessed, what was it with men and uniforms? She looked down at the unflattering cut of it, the plain colour, the thick tights, the simple, black elasticated belt and didn't understand it at all. And then a thought struck her.
'Boss!' Sally's voice came out louder than she intended, almost a scream.
Delaney came crashing through the undergrowth closely followed by Danny Vine. Bob Wilkinson brought up the rear at a leisurely pace.
Delaney looked around, confused. 'What the hell happened, Sally?'
'I had a thought.' She could see he wasn't looking too impressed and rushed ahead before he could say more. 'About the belt buckle, sir.'
'What belt buckle?'
'That the dead girl was wearing. The silver buckle. The Green Man in the woods.'
She had his attention now. 'Go on.'
'"What are belt buckles for?" he said.'
'Get on with it, Sally.'
'Well, traditionally, when a nurse qualifies,
they are often given a belt buckle by a loved one to mark it. Often silver. Often an old one. Victorian. That kind of thing.'
Delaney nodded, pleased.
'I think she's a nurse, sir.'
Delaney waved at Danny and Bob Wilkinson. 'Okay, guys, I think we can call this off for now. You two get back to the station.'
Wilkinson looked at his watch and nodded. 'Five past bacon-butty o'clock.' He crooked his finger at Danny Vine. 'Come on, Kemo Sabe.'
Danny glared at him. 'That had better not be a racist remark.'
Wilkinson looked at him as though highly offended. 'I am a white male English policeman in his fifties, what are the chances of me being racist?'
Danny laughed. 'Absolutely none at all.'
'I'll even drink my tea with you.'
Delaney watched the uniforms walk away, the future and the past of the Metropolitan Police, and figured a blend of the two wasn't perhaps such a bad thing.
He turned back to Sally and nodded at her, pleased. 'Brains as well as beauty. Not sure there's a place for that on the job.'
Despite herself Sally felt herself blushing. Compliments from Jack Delaney were like goals from England trying to qualify for Euro 2008. Which, as her grandfather said at the time, were fucking few and fucking far between.
'Come on then, you can drive.'
Sally blinked. 'Where to?'
'South Hampstead Hospital. You should fit right in.'
Sally pulled her dark, woollen cloak about her, feeling like a character from a Carry On film, and set off following her boss to where his car was parked just off the common.
A few moments later, about thirty yards from where Sally had been, a dark-haired man zipped himself back up and scuffed up some wet leaves with the sharp toe of his boot to kick over the evidence of his shameful pleasures. Though, in truth, he felt no shame at all. Just the thrill of the hunt . . . the thrill of it beginning all over again.
Last night was just another chapter. Long way to go yet.
Delaney's expression was grim as he pushed open the main entrance door to the South Hampstead Hospital, the muscles in his jaw flexed and bunched as though he were chewing on gum rather than memories. Sally stole a sympathetic glance at him as they walked up to the reception desk. She knew why he didn't like hospitals, knew exactly why he didn't like this one in particular. His baby had died here after his wife, wounded badly by shotgun fire, had had to undergo an emergency Caesarean section. Very premature and traumatised by the injuries to his mother, the baby had survived only a matter of moments after the procedure. Delaney's wife survived her son's death by no more than a few minutes. Sally Cartwright knew that her boss still carried the guilt for both their deaths like a member of Opus Dei carries a scourge to beat themselves with daily. Delaney had never let the scar tissue heal, each day he'd make it bleed afresh.
She remembered reading the details of his wife's murder the day before; something about it had struck her as odd, but she didn't feel now was the right time to discuss it.
Delaney held his warrant card up to the bored-looking receptionist who betrayed no emotion at the display. Police and their warrant cards were, after all, not a rarity at any city hospital.
'I want to see whoever is in charge of the nurses here.'
The receptionist glanced back at her horoscope. Sally could see it was written by Jonathan Cainer. 'Depends what wards they work on. They all have their own senior sisters.'
'I don't know what ward she worked on. Isn't there someone from personnel who deals with them all?'
Sally could hear the irritation in his voice. The receptionist picked up the phone. 'I'll see if I can find someone to talk to you. Can I ask what it is about?'
'It's about police business. Tell them that,' Delaney said curtly.
The receptionist sighed heavily and punched some numbers into the telephone keypad. Delaney walked across to read the notices pinned on the adjacent wall on the other side of the reception desk and Sally smiled apologetically at the woman behind the counter. 'He doesn't like hospitals very much.'
'Not really interested.'
Sally shrugged. 'What's he say for Capricorn?'
The receptionist looked back at her, frowning. 'What?'
'Jonathan Cainer. He's very good, isn't he?'
The receptionist pointedly turned the page. 'I don't know. I only buy it for the Sudoku.'
Sally shrugged again, and wandered over to join Delaney as he was studying a poster advertising an STD drop-in clinic.
'Something you're worried about, sir?'
Delaney gave her a flat look. 'You may have done well with the belt buckle, Detective Constable, but don't push it.'
'Sir.' Sally grinned, she knew Delaney wasn't annoyed. Not with her at least.
A little while later, a short woman dressed in a navy-blue suit, with iron-grey hair cut fashionably short, strode briskly up to Delaney and thrust out her hand.
'Margaret Johnson. I understand you have some questions regarding one of our staff?'
Delaney shrugged. 'Possibly about one of your staff, Mrs Johnson.'
'Why don't you come through to my office?'
Margaret Johnson's office was surprisingly colourful and cluttered. She moved a stack of files from one of the chairs facing her desk and gestured at them to take a seat.
'What can I do to be of assistance?'
'We are trying to identify someone. We think she may have worked here.'
'And she's dead?'
'How would you know that?' Sally asked.
Margaret Johnson looked at her sadly. 'Call it an educated guess. If she wasn't dead she herself could tell you who she was, especially if you knew where she worked.'
Delaney placed a file on the desk in front of him. 'I'm afraid these photos are going to be rather unpleasant to look at.'
'That's okay, Inspector.'
'You know all the nurses who work here?'
'I would have interviewed them all at least once, yes.'
Delaney opened the file. 'We're trying to find out who she is. She wore a belt with a distinctive buckle. It's why we think she might have been a nurse.'
He took out a ten by eight black-and-white photo of the belt and buckle and handed it across to her.
Sally leaned in. 'We thought it might have been a qualifying gift. She was found near the hospital and we figured she may have worked here.'
The woman nodded. 'It's a possibility. It's the sort of buckle that a nurse might well have. When you say she was found . . . may I ask what the circumstances were?'
'She was murdered,' Delaney said shortly. 'Her throat was cut and her body was slashed. Repeatedly, and with some force.'
Margaret Johnson swallowed and nodded at the folder, steeling herself. 'I had best take a look then.'
Delaney handed the file across to her and Sally could see moisture forming in the older woman's eyes as she looked through the photos one by one.
'The poor woman.' Her voice cracked, and she brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. 'I'm sorry.'
She handed the file back.
'I'm sorry you had to see those, but we need to know,' Delaney said.
'I meant I'm sorry because I can't help you.'
'Mrs Johnson?'
'She may well have been a nurse. But she didn't work here.'