Nailbiters

by Kane, Paul

  Keeping an eye on her those evenings in his unmarked car, Hammond had been given a first-hand taster of the life of those women who risked everything out here. Seeing the trouble she’d gotten into a few times; though again Charlie had handled herself well, only having to pull her badge a couple of times. They’d been false alarms, of course; not the guy they were looking for. He never showed on those evenings, or at least he never had a crack at Charlie.

  But Hammond couldn’t help thinking, as he watched her putting her own life on the line for a different reason altogether, that as good looking as Charlie was, she still wasn’t a patch on his girl. On her.

  On his Ella.

  Only that wasn’t what she called herself, wasn’t even what she wanted him to call her…not at first anyway. That name had slipped out when she hadn’t been focussed one night, when she’d had a bit too much to drink; and he’d tried to find out more, but she’d clammed up on that occasion. If she’d been with anyone else but him, they might have forced her to tell – forced her to do a lot more besides. But he didn’t; he respected her privacy. Respected her, actually.

  A surprise really, given how they’d met. It had been a private bash thrown by a local ‘businessman’ a year or more ago, to get both members of the criminal underworld and a corrupt police force on side. Hammond couldn’t say that he was entirely comfortable with both fraternities rubbing shoulders at the shin-dig, but was well aware of how it all worked in this town – corrupt politicians mediating between them half the time. Backs were scratched on a regular basis, the odd blind eye turned; checks and balances, was how it had been explained to him. The alcohol had flowed – and probably much harder stuff out of sight – and as part of the evening’s entertainment, ‘escorts’ had been laid on (though it was clear to anyone with half a brain that these girls hadn’t come from any kind of established escort company). A string of them had been paraded in front of Hammond, and he’d been asked to pick which one he wanted: black; oriental; Indian… ‘Whatever floats your boat,’ he’d been told, by the fellow who’d brought them in. A snivelling little man who seemed to live to please.

  Back in the day, back before Ella, he probably wouldn’t have hesitated – just like the married Balfour, pointing out a thin, athletic girl, the exact opposite of himself. They’d then disappeared upstairs in the hotel where the party was being held. If he was being honest, Hammond was about to refuse the offer…when he saw her. She looked stunning, with that golden hair taken up and in that blue off-the-shoulder dress which clung to every curve of her; a choker at the neck completing the outfit (he really hoped now that hadn’t been an omen of things to come…).

  But he wasn’t looking at her body – not really. It was those equally blue eyes he spotted first, being fanned by huge black eyelashes; that cute button nose and lips that looked naturally red, though he could have been wrong. Her expression, aided by the fair eyebrows that were slightly raised, was one of innocence – at odds with the profession he knew even then she was in. It didn’t so much make him want to have her, as protect her – not that she needed it, as he later discovered. No, Ella was tough – and she’d been through so much.

  While he was standing there, gaping, probably even had his mouth wide open, one of the other men in the room came over and approached her. Hammond recognised him as a lowlife called Nichols, involved in hardcore fetish webcam sites and not averse to knocking his performers about if the rumours were correct. ‘Hi there, beautiful,’ he said, practically drooling over Ella. He rubbed a finger down her cheek and across her chin, which made Hammond’s stomach turn; particularly when he saw those blue eyes of hers brush the floor.

  He couldn’t help himself – before he knew it, he was cutting in, grabbing Nichols’ arm and lowering it. ‘I think you’ll find she’s spoken for,’ Hammond had said, as if he was some half-arsed knight of old.

  ‘That so?’ replied the man, snatching his arm away.

  Hammond didn’t want any trouble, not here, so he looked over to the guy who’d told him he could pick whichever girl he wanted. A guy who also knew he was a copper. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen… I’m sure we can work something out,’ he’d said in those same sycophantic tones.

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ said Hammond, eyes narrowing – a threat he couldn’t really carry out implied; to look a bit more carefully into Nichols’ affairs, perhaps?

  ‘Look, look… Plenty more to choose from,’ said the intermediary, his voice practically begging Nichols to let it go. There was a moment or so, when the criminal looked from Ella, to Hammond, to the toadying man – a moment when it could have gone either way – then thankfully he backed off, hands raised. No harm, no foul. The sycophant led him over to the other girls and he seemed happy enough to go with a brunette who had a chest that looked like it had been inflated with a bicycle pump. Leaving Hammond with Ella…except he hadn’t known she was Ella back then. Back then, she’d introduced herself as:

  ‘Sindy.’

  ‘With a “C”?’ he’d asked her, like that mattered.

  She’d shaken her head.

  Like the doll, then? he’d thought to himself, but didn’t say it. A plaything – from her childhood?

  ‘I’m Hammond. Patrick.’

  Already, she was gesturing for them to leave, to head upstairs. Hammond went with her, more because he wanted to get away from everyone else than anything, but found himself tongue-tied as they headed for the lift. She pressed the button and stepped inside, so he followed – would have followed her anywhere, he realised at that moment. As they ascended, he caught her looking across at him, and she smiled, said: ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Hammond replied, eventually finding his voice.

  ‘Glad it was you,’ she explained. ‘And not him.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  When they got to the room, one of those allocated for use by ‘guests’ at the party, she’d entered first again and he’d trailed her inside. She’d told him to make himself comfortable while she poured a glass of champagne from a bottle provided. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat on the bed, accepting the glass gratefully from Sindy. But when she suddenly stepped back and reached around, pulling down the zipper on the back of her dress, he stood up again. ‘No, no…wait…don’t.’

  She’d looked puzzled then, and he felt terrible – didn’t want her to think he didn’t find her attractive. It wasn’t that; dear God, it so wasn’t that. He just didn’t want to spoil things – the sight of her in that dress, the illusion of her, the…perfectness of her. ‘Oh, no. I don’t mean… I just…’

  Then a look of realisation washed over her face. ‘You want me to keep my clothes on? I get it.’

  He shook his head and the bewildered expression returned. ‘Can we just… I mean, is it okay if we just spend some time together?’

  The concept was clearly alien to her. She was probably used to men grabbing and tearing at her, not being able to wait to get her out of her clothes and into bed. ‘Okay…’ she said, unsure. Hammond wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, either.

  He nodded for Sindy to sit down on the bed with him and they sat in silence for a while, until one of them – he could never remember which – broke it with some nonsense. Chit-chat about nothing really, what they’d seen on the TV recently, at the cinema, what kind of food they liked…awkward at first, but then flowing more easily. The rest was just a blur, his mouth working, words coming out, but concentrating, fixated on her face – those eyes!

  Right up until the moment she noticed the clock. ‘Is that the time – listen, I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘But it’s only…’ Hammond followed her gaze to the bedside clock and realised it was almost midnight; not late, but not really early either.

  ‘They only paid us until twelve,’ she explained.

  ‘Then maybe we could…’ he began, but she was already standing, already walking towards the door. ‘No, wait!’ he called after her. ‘I’ll pay you.’

  Sindy turned
the handle, shaking her head. ‘No. I really should be going. I enjoyed meeting you, though, Pat. I honestly did.’

  And suddenly she was gone, as quickly as she’d appeared in the first place. Dipping in and out of his life. Hammond raced to the door, but the lift was already descending. He stabbed at the buttons, but it didn’t stop. He raced to the stairs, raced down them, though by the time he reached the foyer, there was no sign of Sindy. Hardly anyone around at all from the party, in fact.

  He’d spoken to the people who’d organised it, however, asked about her – and it was as he’d thought, Sindy hadn’t been hired via any kind of agency, but through recommendations. ‘I’m not surprised you want to see her again, the things she can do…’ one guy he’d spoken to had said and Hammond’s lip curled.

  It took him a while to track her down, a week or so and on his own time, but it was what he did – as a detective (can’t track her down now, though, can you? as much as you’d like to). She’d been in an area of town notorious for that kind of activity when he spotted her, leaning back against a wall and having a drag on a cigarette. Her hair was down over her shoulders this time, clothing much less classy than it had been the night of the party; in fact the coat with the fake fur collar looked positively shabby. Not that any of it mattered to Hammond, not even a little bit. To him, she looked Heaven-sent in the glow from the street-lamp.

  He’d crawled up to the curb, risking all kinds of trouble – risking his career, but not caring. Then she’d kicked back off the wall, gone to engage her next client only to find Hammond leaning across as the passenger side window came down. ‘Patrick?’ she’d said, looking left and right – probably wondering if she was about to get arrested, knowing now as she did what line of work he was in. ‘W-What are you doing here?’

  He found that he couldn’t really answer that, now he’d been asked. So he just said, ‘I was wondering… if maybe you’d like a coffee or something?’

  ‘A coffee?’ She glanced about her again, nervous. ‘I’m working. You…you really shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Then tell me to go away.’

  She opened her mouth to speak and he could’ve sworn his heart missed a few beats until the words came out, fearful that Sindy was just going to tell him to get lost. ‘Please,’ she said then. ‘I can’t…’

  He was bringing out his wallet then, opening it up – really putting himself in the frame if he got caught. There was a time and a place, and out in public wasn’t it. ‘If it’s money then—’

  ‘Put that away, Patrick.’ She climbed into the car with him and he drove off, taking her for that coffee. It had been the start of his seeing her on a semi-regular basis; whenever he could, and wherever. He’d taken her for coffees, drinks, meals, even out to see films a couple of times – but hadn’t wanted to rush anything else. Sindy had always refused any offer of cash, which only fed into his delusions that he was…what, dating her? He’d often ask himself just what the hell he thought he was doing. If he got caught, a copper seeing a prossie – and not in the usual way – it would be the end of him, even in this town. But then he’d think of that face again and all would be right with his world.

  He was keenly aware of the age difference as well, Hammond being a good few years older than Sindy, but she never made an issue of it – then again, why would she? Sindy was used to dealing with men of all ages and making them feel good about themselves. No, it wasn’t just that – couldn’t be that! There was something more between them, he could feel it; could sense it with that same detective’s sense which told him when things weren’t right, when people – even expert liars – were hiding the truth.

  Expert liars like a woman who could be anyone for anybody? Could play any part, from a dominatrix to a school girl? Hammond always shook away the thoughts before they could take hold – it would only ruin how he thought of her, his Sindy…his Ella.

  They’d slept together eventually, of course they had – at his flat, never hers – though the first couple of times they’d come close, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to. ‘It’s okay,’ she’d told him. ‘It happens to everyone sometimes.’ He’d nodded, not able to explain it was the sight of Sindy in all her glory that had done it, the reality even more breath-taking than he could have possibly imagined; the thought that all he could offer her was his lacking body, past its prime but every molecule of it hers if she wanted. Then it had happened, and it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. All the others in the past, including Karen who he’d almost married, were like shadows – pale imitations of the real thing.

  Real emotions, real feelings. Real…love.

  The subject had come up more than a few times after that, about their respective occupations. He’d even felt brave enough, after talking about his own history – growing up in a family where you either landed on one side of the law or the other, and sometimes straddled both – to ask her how she’d gotten into this game, if you’d pardon the expression. He thought she wasn’t going to answer him at first – it took so much for her to let her guard down, to properly trust. But then he found out why. She’d spoken in vagaries about a dead father, and about how things had changed after that; about a step-mother she hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with and had her own kids anyway; about running away, living rough from the age of 16 – about a woman called Ruth who’d taken her under her wing for a little while and shown her the ropes of that particular world, before moving on to bigger and better things. Last she’d heard of the woman she’d married rich, taken on a daughter of her own.

  It had been a start, though, and this job was a way for her to earn a bit of money and not be reliant on anyone. Be self-sufficient. But oh, those dreams of the coast…of being by the sea. She’d always loved the sea.

  Not the time nor the place to talk about her jacking it all in, just being with him – even if it meant moving to somewhere else entirely. And the more Hammond left it, the harder it became; the more he felt it would look like trying to strong-arm her, that he was trying to take over her life, tell her what to do. That hadn’t happened until the murders began…

  Then he’d started, subtly at first with the warnings – that it wasn’t safe out there. ‘Patrick, it never has been,’ she would tell him.

  Finally, in the end, he’d argued with her about it; hadn’t been able to get her to see reason. To see the danger. He’d even offered her the money if she’d stay off the streets, which she’d taken quite badly. That had led to the row, and those words he wanted to take back so badly. That he couldn’t now she was gone; now that bits of her were being sent to them. The first time their killer had kept the body (no, they didn’t know she was dead) and just dumped the foot. A reversal of all the other times – but why?

  The cutting off of the feet had led them to conclude they might be dealing with a fetishist, which in turn had led to them trawling sites where they hung out; sites like the ones Nichols ran (he’d actually been a suspect for all of five minutes). Or more specifically a young DC called Crabtree, who was an IT specialist, had been trawling them. He’d come up with some interesting finds as well, but nothing that ever amounted to anything concrete. This one threw everything into confusion, though; why would their perp give the foot away instead of keeping it as a trophy, as he must have done with the others?

  Why. Keep. Sindy (Ella)?

  Hammond had spent a couple of very sleepless nights – on top of the ones where he’d been worrying about her – trying to figure it out, but drawing a blank. Of course, it’s always when you’re trying of think of an answer that something else hits you. Something which turned out this time to be just as important.

  ‘It’s been fucking staring us in the face, don’t you see?’ he’d said to Balfour. The man’s expression told him that he clearly hadn’t. ‘The box. The box that the foot was delivered in.’

  ‘What about it?’ asked Balfour, still looking confused.

  ‘It was a shoe box,’ Hammond said.

  ‘So what? Probably just because
it was the right size and shape for a foot.’

  Hammond shook his head. ‘He could have used any kind of box… Didn’t Crabtree say that a lot of the weirdos on those sites were into shoes as well?’

  ‘And you’re suggesting we arrest everyone who bought a pair of shoes in the last…what, ten years?’ Balfour laughed.

  ‘I’m saying what if our guy used that box because he had it to hand. What if he’s around this kind of shit all the time? Works in a shoe shop, or a factory that—’

  ‘Hammond, you’re reaching. Whoever this is wouldn’t be that stupid, not after covering themselves like they have.’

  ‘Didn’t one of those knobs from the local college who came in to talk to us about psychology say that deep down all these creeps want to get caught?’

  Balfour sighed. ‘We don’t have the manpower to go talking to everyone in shoe factories all over the land, on the off chance your flights of fancy are right.’

  ‘Just give me a few people. Look,’ he said as she wandered past, causing the woman to pause, ‘give me Charlie Grant – she’s not assigned to anything at the moment. She knows the case.’

  Reluctantly, Balfour agreed: Charlie, plus a couple of other PCs, until the weekend – that’s all he could spare. So they headed off to talk to those who had any kind of connection to the trade. There was a mall not that far outside of town, so they started there – Hammond and Charlie. Two large stores, but staffed with tweenies who barely had a brain cell to share amongst them. Certainly nobody who could have engineered half the things they’d seen, or would have wanted to. He’d caught Charlie examining the items on offer more than once and just rolled his eyes at her. ‘What?’ she’d said in return. ‘Women and shoes…’