This Little Piggy: a spellbinding serial killer thriller (DI Rosalind Kray Book 2)

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Do you have any leads?’ Kray knew the answer to her question before she asked it.

  ‘No,’ said Brownlow.

  ‘Roz, what is this about?’ asked Tavener.

  Kray collected herself, not sure this was a good idea. It had sounded dead plausible when she rehearsed it in the car, but now it had lost its logic. She started slow. ‘Our victim, John Graham, had the second toe on his right foot removed by the killer.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tavener, eager for the punchline.

  ‘He was murdered using the same techniques they use to kill pigs in an abattoir.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  ‘I think there is another body out there. A body that we have yet to find.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Brownlow. ‘Run that past me again.’

  ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home, this little piggy had roast beef … you know the nursery rhyme? When you play it with a child, you tweak each toe in turn. First the big toe, then the next and so on.’ Both men were silent. ‘Graham was missing his second toe. I reckon there’s another body out there, killed in the same way, but this time, with the big toe missing.’

  Brownlow burst out laughing. ‘You’ve lost it, Roz. Is that why you dragged me in here? to tell me a serial killer is out there singing nursery rhymes? You’ve lost the plot this time.’

  Tavener was watching his boss.

  ‘I know it sounds a little off, but—’ Kray said regretting she had not listened to her instincts and shut up.

  ‘A little off? Bat-shit crazy is what I call it.’ Brownlow stood up to leave. ‘I would be careful who you tell that story to, Roz, or you might find yourself back in therapy.’

  Kray steeled every muscle in her body to prevent her from punching him in the face.

  I bring the car to a juddering halt; my heart is thumping out of my chest. I jump out and jog the two hundred yards to my flat, trying to calm down.

  I live above Mr Woo’s Chinese Takeaway on Regal Crescent. I don’t know how the street got its name, because it is as straight as a Roman road, and there’s fuck all regal about it.

  My landlord assures me that his real name is Joseph Woo, and he is not stereotyping himself. He is a second-generation, British-born Chinese whose parents came over from Hong Kong in the early eighties to make Blackpool their home.

  Joseph worked out that he could earn more money selling egg fried rice to drunk people than he could counting beans as an accountant. So, he quit his job and applied his considerable business acumen to his parents’ shop. Within two years, they had moved to larger premises with more passing trade. Sure, it was an issue that most of their passing trade were unable to walk in a straight line, but it was two streets away from the Promenade and the takings went through the roof. After eight months, they had applied for a late opening licence, the bunting outside the premises read: Mr Woo Now Open ‘til Two! when they were granted the extension.

  I knew exactly what I was looking for and when Joseph first showed me the upstairs bedsit, I snapped his hand off. I have three rooms – a lounge with a kitchenette in the corner, a bedroom and a bathroom. I must admit, I had pangs of guilt when I broke the bathroom window. I had not been in the flat long and persuaded Joseph to replace it with a single pane of double-glazing, instead of a window which I could open and close. I told him I was paranoid about being burgled while I was asleep and he was sympathetic to my fears. It means that the place can get a little steamy after I’ve showered, but that is a small price to pay.

  The whole place smells of Chinese cooking and I eat it most days. I like the food, but after a few months, you crave something plain – though I persevere.

  I have an excellent relationship with the Woos. There are eight family members in total and they all, in one way or another, work in the shop. I make a point of spending time with them whenever I come home or leave the property. I also chat to their regulars, the punters who either can’t cook or don’t own a cooker. They are a talkative bunch.

  There is one aspect of my bedsit which would switch most people off. There is only one way in and one way out and that takes me through the front of the takeaway. I have a key to the front door and a second key to my flat. Joseph was at pains to tell me that they had plans to knock through and build a separate entrance for the flat which would have its own access off the street. I nod my approval whenever he raises the subject and I persuade him to wait and do it at another time.

  I love talking to the regular customers as they wait in the queue for their food. I love chatting to the Woo clan as I head off out to work. I love the social interaction the single access door gives me. One way in, one way out, and a ton of people to talk to – perfect.

  I push open the door to the takeaway. Three familiar faces are sitting against the wall waiting for their food.

  ‘Alright there, Kev,’ says the man who is always dressed in a duffle coat no matter what the time of the year.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Hungry but a quick Woo-woo will sort me out.’

  I could never understand why he refers to his takeout as a Woo-woo, but he does it every time. The other two raise their hands to say ‘Hi’.

  ‘You’re home early, Kev,’ Joseph says, piling chips onto a plastic tray, wrapping it in paper and placing it into a plastic carrier bag.

  ‘Yes, I was on earlies and I’m knackered.’ I try to look exhausted, when in reality, I am fizzing with adrenaline.

  ‘Hi, Kev.’ Anabel, Joseph’s English wife, appears from the back, her arms piled high with plastic containers. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks, just tired that’s all. I reckon I’m off to bed, get some well-earned sleep.’

  ‘We’ll keep the noise down,’ Joseph laughs. ‘Not!’

  ‘See you later tonight. I’ll cook you up something special,’ she quipped.

  ‘Number fifty-five?’ Joseph calls out and the man in the duffle coat shuffles over to the counter. ‘See you later, Kev.’

  I ease my way past the counter and head upstairs. I need to make this opportunity count. The police are going to join the dots up sooner or later.

  15

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’ Quade was not a happy ACC. ‘I will not tolerate you two having a stand-up argument in an open office when all around are listening in.’

  ‘Technically, ma’am, it was in my office–’ Kray said.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. If either of you have a problem managing the reporting lines I suggest you get it sorted out. Because if you don’t sort it – I will. And I promise, if I have to get involved again, neither of you will be happy.’

  Brownlow stared at his interlocked fingers resting on the desk, saying nothing. He was kicking himself that he had allowed his mouth to run away with him at the very moment that ACC Quade was doing her rounds looking for an update. Having a go at Kray was one thing, getting caught doing it was another.

  ‘Do I need to help you two resolve this?’ Quade pushed her point.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ they said together.

  ‘Good. Now, go do what you’re paid to do.’

  Kray and Brownlow skulked out of Quade’s office in silence. ‘And don’t forget I need that press statement on my desk by close of play,’ she called after Kray.

  ‘Not forgotten, ma’am,’ Kray replied, having forgotten all about it.

  They walked out of the ACPO suite without exchanging a word and headed back down the stairs.

  ‘How are we going to do this?’ Kray asked.

  ‘Do what?’ Brownlow replied as they reached the landing where the CID offices were located. Kray stopped.

  ‘I think there is a link between my investigation and yours,’ Kray said, watching Brownlow as he continued to walk down the stairs. ‘Colin, where are you going? We need to collaborate on this.’

  ‘No, Roz, I’m not sure we do. If you want to waste your time chasing nursery rhymes, then that’s up to you. I have a set of
interviews to conduct about a missing person.’

  ‘Do I have to remind you that I am acting head of CID?’

  ‘No, Roz, you don’t. But I’m really not that worried, because when you tell Quade the reason why you are diverting valuable resources to interfere with my investigation, you won’t be acting anything for long.’ He disappeared around the corner.

  ‘Brownlow!’ Kray called after him. ‘Brownlow!’ All she heard was the echo of his footsteps shuffling further away.

  Kray slammed the heal of her hand into the door and it bounced open into the corridor. She stomped to her office, reached for the phone and punched two keys. I’ll have his head on a fucking spike.

  ‘I want to see the missing person file for Nigel Chapman please, its urgent. Can you drop it by my office? Thank you.’ She hung up and gently seethed.

  Kray didn’t have to wait long for a rosy-faced man stuck his head around the door, ‘you wanted these Roz.’ He handed her a buff coloured file with papers protruding from it.

  She weighed it in her hand. ‘Thank you, I’ll let you know when I’m done with them.’ The man hovered in the doorway. Kray looked at the thin collection of papers. ‘Is this it?’ she asked.

  ‘No, ma’am. DI Brownlow has more stuff on his desk. These are the most relevant documents.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay, thank you.’ He turned on his heels and shot off. Kray got up from her desk and made her way down the corridor, pushing open the third door on the left. Brownlow shared his office with four others. The place was empty. Three of the desks were in reasonable order, one was covered with so much paperwork it constituted a fire hazard. It was Brownlow’s.

  ‘Give me strength,’ she muttered under her breath, sitting at his desk sifting through the mountains of documents and reports. Her OCD was going berserk. ‘Where the hell do I start?’

  Kray flipped open the file and started reading the summary of background checks for the missing man. Nigel Chapman ran a successful business and lived in a swanky house to the north of town. He was single and enjoyed the high life, owning a property in Marbella and a number of vintage sports cars. He didn’t have a steady girlfriend but that did not mean he went short of female company. The names of five women were listed as being “connected” to him in the last six months alone. Kray had no doubt in her mind what sort of connection that might have been.

  Chapman had been reported missing by a work colleague eight days ago when he failed to turn up for a meeting. His diary was full of appointments and he had failed to show up for any them. Plus, his bank accounts had not been accessed and his mobile phone was dead.

  Kray stared at his mugshot clipped to the first page. It was a shot taken from his Facebook page, all smiles and happy. Kray had a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach that life was anything but happy for Chapman now. She read through the documents, trying to avoid looking at the mountainous mess in front of her.

  Then, a single sentence made her stop. She reached for her phone.

  ‘Duncan, where are you? … Okay, I will pick you up in twenty minutes … No, I will explain on the way.’ She removed the sheet of paper from the file and left the office. Her scars were on fire.

  Tavener was waiting on the pavement outside a house. He had been conducting door-to-door enquires about John Graham when he’d received the call from Kray. He was getting nowhere fast, so bailing out was not a problem. What was a problem though, was when his boss said, ‘I will explain on the way’, it was generally followed by a high-speed car journey with no explanation whatsoever.

  Kray pulled up and he jumped into the passenger seat.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Kray asked.

  ‘Nothing as yet but we’ve only scratched the surface. How did it go with Quade and Brownlow?’

  ‘Don’t ask. She rapped our knuckles and he pissed off.’

  ‘Not good, then?’

  ‘Nope, not good.’ Kray checked her mirrors and pulled away. Tavener was relieved that he had not been thrown back in his seat nor could he hear the screech of tyres.

  ‘Well? Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Red Marsh Industrial estate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where Nigel Chapman runs his business.’

  ‘And that’s of interest to us because…?’

  ‘He owns a contracting firm and one of his suppliers is a small welding and fabrication business which he bought fourteen months ago.’ Kray allowed time for the new information to sink in.

  ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. The fabrication business was owned by our guy hanging upside down in his hallway - John Graham.’ Tavener said, smiling at his boss.

  ‘That’s why you and me get on so well.’

  They sped off in search of Brixton Construction.

  16

  I arrive at the lock-up and hurry from the car. Everything is ready but, as they say, time is of the essence. I unlock the up-and-over door and yank hard on the handle. The door yawns open and I step inside.

  The white hire van is waiting. Emblazoned down one side is written:

  Eric Bronson

  Handyman Services

  No job too small

  07700 900285

  I have to say, I’ve done a cracking job. I decided to use a set of transfer lettering used to make those decorative heart-warming statements which adorn the walls of kitchens and bedrooms. You know the type of thing – Good food, good wine, good friends. I went to two shops, one in Leeds and the other in Manchester to purchase what I needed. Annoyingly, I had to buy three sets to make up my sign. But it was worth it.

  I change out of my day clothes and put on industrial trousers and a working jacket. A baseball cap, work books and gloves complete the look. I have one last check on the gear in the back and pull the van out of the garage. I swap over into my car, backing it into the vacant space. I close the garage door and head off.

  I run through the sequence of events over and over in my head as I drive along, making sure to keep way under the speed limit. I reach her house and draw the van into the curb, stepping out into the darkness. I let out a sigh of relief to see her driveway is empty. I check my watch. She normally takes an hour and a half. I have twenty minutes to set up.

  I take my holdall from the back and stroll up the drive to the back of the house. The back door is old, with six-inch square panels of frosted glass set into the frame. I try to shake the numbness from my hands and rummage around in my bag to retrieve a suction cup which I secure to the glass next to the Yale lock. I score around the perimeter of the pane with my glass cutters, pushing as hard as I dare. The sound of the wheel cutting into the glass sets my teeth on edge.

  After going over it several times, I strike the centre of the suction cup and the glass pops inwards, breaking along score lines. I tilt the pane and pull it back through the hole. My other hand eases between the gap and my fingers find the lock and the security chain, freeing them both. The door swings open into the kitchen.

  I depress the valve on the suction cup to remove the glass, then, using grey blue-tack, I stick it back into position. The kitchen smells of grilled fish.

  The house is long and thin. I’m standing in a galley kitchen which leads through to a dining room. A heavy oak table and four chairs command the centre of the room, and books are crammed into bookcases and stacked on the floor. I walk through the dining room and enter the hallway with the front door directly ahead of me at the far end. To the right-hand side is the staircase leading to the first floor and the lounge is off to the left.

  The door is slightly ajar. I nudge it with my foot and it swings open but only as far as the arm of the brown leather sofa located behind it. It opens up onto a large room with two big armchairs in the same style as the settee, a coffee table and a flat screen TV. Set in the bay window is an old oak desk with a laptop on the top and scribbled notes festooned around it.

  I stare at the offending article, the laptop that is, and wond
er how many other lives she’s ruined. How many other people have their reputations in tatters due to the vitriolic bile she spreads using her keyboard. I’m lost in my daydream and almost miss the car turning into the drive.

  Shit, she’s early!

  I duck down, grabbing my bag and force it behind the sofa. I pull the black knitted ski mask over my face and position myself behind the living room door and wait. Previously, my heart was banging against my rib cage like a wild animal trying to escape, but now it is calm and measured. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

  I hear the car door slam and the boot open up. After a while, that too is slammed shut. I hear her heels clip-clopping on the front porch and the key slide into the lock. There is a metallic click and the front door opens. I feel a blast of cold as the outside air rushes into the hallway, the back of her heel kicks the front door shut. This has been a long time coming.

  I hear her bustle down the hallway and through the dining room to the kitchen where she puts away her shopping. Her phone rings.

  ‘Yes, I can talk now,’ she says in clipped tones. Her voice is high-pitched like a child’s. ‘Yes, I can get the piece to you before six-thirty, if that works for you. Will that make the cut-off?’ She paused for the response. ‘Okay, I’ll finish it off now and send it through to you.’

  The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing echoes down the hall. Then, I hear her shoes land in a heap on the floor and she’s in the lounge.

  ‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,’ she says to no one. ‘Why the fuck we all have to dash about to hit a fictitious deadline is beyond me.’

  The sound of her fingernails pecking at the keys fills the room. I edge forward and peer around the door. The first thing that catches my eye is the shock of bright yellow hair cut tight to her scalp. She has her head bowed as her screen fills with words and pictures. I hear her mumbling to herself as she reads the article in her head. Every now and again her hands fly onto the keys, striking out words and replacing them with others. It is getting dark and the room is lit from the glow of the screen and the light in the hall.