by Alan Bexley
Chapter 3
Helen sat beside Frank in his car. She was still wearing her parka and had pulled on gloves. Dancing in the Street played on the CD sung by David Bowie and Mick Jagger. Frank approved of the music; Helen’s singing not so much.
‘You could join in, you miserable sod. It’s the music of your youth.’
Frank glanced across at her with a slight smile. He regretted discussing his favourite records of the past, but only a little. Her eyes seem to shine in the morning light. He shook his head. ‘This is a serious business.’
‘I know and I’ll switch over to serious Helen when we get there. In this job, sometimes you need a distraction.’
Frank snorted and shook his head again. ‘Call Jade and make sure we’ve got witness appeals out on Facebook and Twitter. She needs to check the colour of the Golf and dig out a suitable photo. Also send it to Peter at the Herald.’
Helen turned the music down but not off. A couple of minutes later, she ended the call. ‘She had it all in hand.’
She turned the music up again.
Helen studied his profile. ‘You knew her - Victoria Crosby - didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, checking the rear-view mirror and then signalling.
‘And?’
He didn’t answer until he had turned the corner. ‘And call her “Vicky”. She hated being called “Victoria.”’
‘Right, what was she like?’
He gave her a quick glance. ‘Like you.’
She stroked her hair back over her shoulders. ‘Beautiful, young, slim, intelligent.’
‘Mischievous, irresponsible and unreliable.’
He glanced again. She pulled a face. ‘You wouldn’t have me any other way.’
He grinned. ‘We’re here,’ he said, as he turned in the driver’s seat to manoeuvre into a parking space.
She undid her seat belt, leaned forward, and turned off the CD player.
Northcroft Street was a terrace of two-up two-down brick houses. Ingermann lived at number six.
A dishevelled, middle-aged man answered the door. He had straggly hair hanging over his ears.
‘Mr George Ingermann?’ Frank asked.
‘Yes.’ He peered at Frank through his spectacles. Ingermann rubbed his face and scratched his waist through his short-sleeved plaid shirt.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Grey.’ He held up his warrant card.
Helen did likewise. ‘Detective Constable Helen Walker.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Do you own a Volkswagen Golf?’ Frank said.
‘As it happens, I do. It’s parked up the street. Parking’s a pain round here. I couldn’t park any closer last night. What’s this all about?’
‘Last night, what time did you get home?’ Frank said.
‘About half-past five.’
‘Have you been out since?’
‘Too knackered, mate. Watched TV drinking a few cans and then got off to bed. Didn’t open the front door ‘til now.’
‘Could you point out the car to us?’ Frank asked.
‘Why?’
‘Just show us,’ Helen said, with a smile.
He stepped back inside and came out wearing a long overcoat. ‘Just up ‘ere,’ he said.
They walked up the pavement. He stopped and looked around. ‘What the ’ell?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make an insurance claim, Mr Ingermann,’ Frank said. ‘Your car’s been stolen,’ he paused watching Ingermann’s face fall, ‘and set on fire.’
Ingermann put both hands on top of his head. ‘No, no, no.’ He took a few paces in one direction, eyes checking the line of parked cars, and then turned about. A few steps in the other direction and his arms fell to his sides. He cursed to himself.
Behind him, Frank exchanged a glance with Helen. She gave a slight shrug.
‘I’ll arrange for a crime number,’ Helen said. ‘Give me your phone number and I’ll text it to you.’
She wrote the number he gave in her notebook.
‘OK, Mr Ingermann, thank you for your time. Sorry for the bad news,’ Frank said.
He and Helen got back into the car and sat watching while Ingermann went inside his house.
‘What do you reckon?’ Frank said.
‘It’s a busy street even in the early hours. I’d have picked a car parked somewhere less overlooked. But he did seem genuinely surprised.’
‘I agree. If he was acting, he was bloody good.’ Frank started the car. ‘His ex-wife lives a few streets away. I checked his background before we came out. Let’s have a quick word with her.’
Ingermann’s ex-wife lived at 3C, St Georges Road, a converted flat in a row of early Victorian, three-story granite townhouses. She was tall and thin, in her late forties and wearing a denim skirt. Her untidy hair was shoulder length.
She let them into her flat. ‘I know it’s not much, but it’s home,’ she said, and lit a cigarette. Frank noticed Helen back away. They stood in her kitchen while she boiled a kettle. ‘What’s he done?’
No doubt in her mind that they’d come about her former husband. ‘Actually, he’s a victim,’ Frank said. ‘His car’s been stolen.’
Mrs Ingermann choked on her cigarette. She snatched it from her lips and then screeched with laughter. The laughing turned into coughing. Frank and Helen stared at each other.
‘What a shame,’ Mrs Ingermann said, clearly thinking the opposite. ‘It’s his pride and joy. He’s forever polishing it.’
Frank paused and said, ‘The thief set it on fire.’
She exploded into laughter again. Tears formed in her eyes. They waited for her to stop. ‘That’s priceless, but what can I do to help you? You’ve made my day, after all.’
‘Did he do any cash-in-hand work?’ Frank said.
‘He does odd jobs. Officially, he’s a self-employed carpet layer but there ain’t a lot of that work about. He got nicked by your lot for fly-tipping, the silly sod. Does fetching and carrying for the Morgans on and off. Least, he used to.’
‘Nothing else?’ Helen asked. ‘Nothing to do with drugs?’
‘I shouldn’t have thought so, dear.’
‘Thank you,’ Frank said. ‘I think we’ll be going.’
‘Do call again,’ Mrs Ingermann shouted after them, and then she giggled as she closed the door.
Frank looked down at Helen. She shrugged.
Frank checked the car clock. ‘Time for a talk with Bryony Thorpe then we’d better get back for the lunchtime briefing. Griffin will be champing at the bit with the press conference coming up.’
Helen looked out the window as they drove the short distance to Bryony’s house through cold drizzle.
Frank braked hard as a schoolgirl swiping her phone stepped off the kerb right in front of them. She looked in their direction and kept going. Frank took a deep breath before setting off again.
‘I’ve texted the Hastings incident room the few details we’ve uncovered. That will keep them happy for the moment,’ Helen said.
‘I only met Vicky a few times but I don’t buy the image Simon painted of her,’ Frank said. ‘I want to compare notes with her best friend.’
‘He was upset,’ she said. ‘His girlfriend has just been killed. You have to make allowances.’
10:17 am. A gusting wind caught the killer’s umbrella, doing nothing to improve a mood already soured by being summoned to a meeting only to be kept standing around for fifteen minutes.
A man in a raincoat with turned-up collar and a baseball cap finally approached along the wet pavement. The killer turned into an alley and waited under the shelter of a fire escape stairway.
The man was ugly with anger. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘It had to be done. It’s no skin off your nose.’
‘I don’t like anyone being offed without it being absolutely bloody necessary. It brings down the police on all of us. I can do without the damn aggravation.’
‘You don’t own me. I’ll
do as I choose.’
The man raised a pointing, gloved finger to the killer’s face. ‘Damn it, Merk, you’ve gone too far.’
Merk stared unblinking into the man’s face. ‘Do you know the details of what I did?’
The man jerked his finger and then slowly drew his hand away.
‘I took my time and made sure I crushed her head. It was efficiently done. All over in seconds.’
The man stared at Merk’s evil smile. ‘You have no conscience.’
‘Killing gives me a buzz, a thrill. I really come alive in those few precious seconds. You have no idea.’
Chapter 4
Bryony Thorpe opened the door to the late Victorian detached house built from grey limestone. Bryony had her brown hair in a ponytail and wore no makeup. She was late-twenties and wearing a faded turquoise tracksuit. The worn carpet was strewn with children’s toys. She noticed Frank and Helen picking their way around the cars and dinosaurs. ‘They’re both at school now,’ she said.
Helen nodded to show she understood.
They sat in the kitchen and Frank noticed the brightly crayoned drawings stuck to the refrigerator door. He puzzled over what sort of animals were depicted and remembered his daughter’s drawings. All those years ago when she was three years old, Jane was happiest when drawing her family and their house.
‘You want to know about Vicky?’ she asked. Her eyes were narrowed and teary.
‘That’s right, Mrs Thorpe,’ Frank said, focussing his attention on her.
‘Bryony, Bry if you like. Don’t call me Mrs Thorpe. It makes me feel old. I don’t need that, Christ no. Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Can I get you a drink?’
Frank had noticed the unwashed cups, mugs and plates stacked on the draining board. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘A glass of water,’ Helen said.
‘What do you do for a living?’ Frank asked, as Bryony filled a glass.
‘Nurse, at St Margaret’s,’ she said. ‘I’m on tonight. My sister’s girl will be in to do the babysitting.’
She returned to the table.
‘We’re trying to build up a picture of Vicky’s life,’ Frank said. He opened his notebook.
‘You’re Frank Grey, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then you met Vicky. She talked about you.’
‘Yes,’ Frank said. ‘I didn’t mention it because we keep informants’ details confidential.’
‘She was less discreet. We used to talk about everything.’ She stopped and took a few deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe she’s gone - just like that. But I’ll help you any way I can. She was murdered?’
Frank pursed his lips. ‘There will be a press conference soon and we’ll tell the media we’re treating her death as suspicious. But we’re certain she was murdered.’
Bryony nodded. She sniffed and the words burst from her. ‘Where to start? Vicky knew how to enjoy herself. She liked to party. She was great company. Could drink me under the table any day. I remember she took me to a nightclub that had just opened, or maybe reopened. She left me at a table while she danced. It was so late it was early morning. I fell asleep even with all the noise.’ She laughed, but it concealed sadness. For a few seconds, her eyes glazed over as she remembered.
‘She liked a drink?’ Helen asked.
‘Little and often. She was no alky. She’d go for days without. But when she partied, she went for it. It had little effect. Now me, I slur my words and get clumsy. If you want me to sum her up, I’d say she was a great laugh.’
‘And she liked the men? Helen asked.
Bryony’s brow furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she said with hesitation. ‘She was a flirt, no doubt about it. She was about fourteen when she started chasing the boys. Used to hassle them at the bus stops, I remember. But as she got older, she found she was attracted to women as well.’ Bryony wiped tears from her eyes.
‘What was your relationship with Vicky?’ Helen asked softly.
‘We were friends, long-term friends.’
Helen smiled. ‘What did she say about her relationship with Simon?’ She asked.
‘She loved him and wouldn’t hear a word against him. He didn’t know she cheated on him with other partners.’
I wonder, thought Frank.
‘Were there any unhappy ex’s around? Men or women?’
‘I doubt it. She was so open with them; they all knew where they stood. Apart from Simon, I guess. I can’t believe anyone would harm her, let alone run her down with a car. I’ve been racking my brains, but no, she was wild but likeable. I don’t get it.’
She stopped and wiped her eyes with her hands.
‘Any money troubles? Did she like to gamble?’ Frank asked.
‘No, she had plenty of money. She told me she had a savings account at the building society where she worked, and gave the impression that there was a lot in it. I remember she joked about it being “running away money” once. Not that there was anyone in particular worrying her. I think she just liked the feeling of independence.’
‘No one was making a nuisance of themselves?’ Helen asked.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Besides, Vicky could take care of herself.’
Frank studied her. ‘What are you telling us?’
Bryony took a long breath. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this but she’s gone now. She used to carry a knife, always had it in a pocket, handbag, whatever. I think it just gave her confidence. I never saw her holding it.’
Frank stroked his chin. ‘Really?’
‘Well, things can sometimes kick off when people have been drinking. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that, you being bizzies. I never knew Vicky to be violent. She never even hit anyone. She would step back, walk away.’
Helen said, ‘Her record shows she dabbled with drugs.’
‘The odd pill, even a line once in a while, but nothing heavy.’
‘Do you know if she was seeing anyone lately?’ she asked.
‘Yes, a girl she was mad about. There was always someone. She told me all the gory details. Her name was Louise Hopkins and she lives up St John’s Road somewhere. I don’t know the exact address but I guess you’ll be able to track her down.’
Frank nodded. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Can I get your contact phone number in case something occurs to us later?’
‘Sure.’ She recited the number and Frank made a note.
‘Oh, one other thing. She had more than one mobile. She had one she used for work and calling the doctor, an official one, and a second one, a shagging phone for personal calls.’
‘Do you have the number?’ Frank asked.
‘Yes.’
He wrote it down.
‘Did Vicky have a property of her own?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes, an apartment in Kensington House, number 202,’ Bryony said.
‘The prestige apartments ‘round on Tarrant Road?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
That’s close to home. Just behind the station.
Frank made a note. ‘That’s all the questions I wanted to ask. Helen?’
‘I can’t think of anything else. Thanks for your time.’
‘Anything to help you find the bastard who killed her.’
They stood up and Frank pulled a police contact card from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘In case you remember anything else you think we should know.’
‘Does what she told us tally with the Vicky you knew?’ Helen asked as Grey drove them away.
‘More than Haywood’s version.’ He changed gear. ‘I had no idea she was bisexual. The knife thing was a surprise too.’
DI Altman stood by the whiteboard, facing the four CID staff. ‘Right, let’s crack on. I’ve got to brief Superintendent Griffin ahead of the press conference along at the Princess Hotel.’ He turned to look at the pictures and written notes on the board which summarised what they knew of Vicky’s life.
‘Also, we’ve recently learned about Louise Hop
kins, a recent sexual partner and that Vicky had an apartment of her own which she used for liaisons she didn’t want Haywood to know about. She carried a knife. Why did she think this necessary? Anything you want to add Frank?’
‘Mr Ingermann, the car’s owner, says it was stolen but I have reservations. He may have links to the Morgan family and has convictions for theft. He needs looking at in detail. It may be in hand already, but we need to interview her fellow employees at the building society. Helen and I spoke to her boyfriend but he needs to be formally interviewed. We have uniformed officers guarding the Kensington House apartment and that needs to be searched.’
‘It’s early days and there’s a lot to do,’ Altman said. ‘We need to follow up on all of these lines of enquiry.’
Helen raised a finger in the air. Altman nodded at her.
‘I’m not being facetious,’ she said. ‘The killer wore a full head mask so we can’t be sure that it was a man. Maybe the mask was a disguise to conceal her gender?’
Altman stroked his nose. ‘I guess you have a point.’
Jade Wheatley spoke up. Frank noticed her large hoop earrings as she moved her head. ‘I’ve checked Vicky’s criminal record. The ban she got for drink driving was long because of the accident. The driver of the other vehicle wasn’t seriously hurt but his passenger was pregnant and miscarried two days after the crash. We need to look into this. It could be a motive for the attack.’
Chapter 5
The rundown police station was not a suitable venue for a press conference with television coverage. The police had hired a meeting room in the Princess Hotel two doors down on the corner with Tarrant Road. A rostrum with a cluster of microphones was set up with the county police badge in white on a blue background behind. One television camera was positioned to the side and another in the centre aisle between the journalists’ seats. Photographers were sitting on the floor at the front. The noise of competing conversations had built up to a deafening cacophony. Frank stood at the back, hoping to be inconspicuous.
Griffin walked in with Altman in his wake, and a female press officer carrying a clipboard followed them. They sat as the room hushed and then fell silent. The Press Officer pulled a sheet from the clipboard and slid it in front of Griffin.