by Lin Anderson
Jonny Simpson sat with his head in his hands.
DI Wilson had seen all kinds of grief in thirty years as a policeman. It always left its mark. And you had to be careful. Genuine grief didn’t always look the way you thought it should.
‘Okay Mr Simpson. Tell me about the last time you saw Donna.’
Jonny lifted a white face.
‘I haven’t seen Donna since Wednesday night. I’ve been on call.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘We sent texts.’
‘And what did she say in these texts?’
Jonny’s face flushed. ‘Just private stuff.’
Bill was familiar with the world of text messaging, due to his two teenage children. Text was like email. You could write things you might not say.
‘Tracey says Donna didn’t have a family.’
Jonny’s face clouded over. ‘Donna was brought up in a children’s home. She only had me.’
‘Where did you two meet?’
Jonny hesitated for a second or two. ‘In the newsagent where she works. I get my paper there.’
‘Getting married is an expensive business,’ Bill said.
Jonny glared at him. ‘If you mean the dress, Donna’s been saving for it since she was sixteen. I don’t care about all that, but it was important to her.’
Bill decided to get to the point.
‘Did you give Donna a rose?’
‘What?’
‘We found a red rose in the wastepaper bin in her bedroom.’
Jonny tried to mask the quick look of jealousy that flashed across his face.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Try.’
‘These folk come round the pubs, trying to sell you a rose. Donna was soft. She made me buy them sometimes.’
It was a good answer. Bill almost believed him.
‘Why are you talking to me anyway? Why aren’t you out there catching the bastard that killed Donna?’
‘We’d like you to provide a DNA sample, Mr Simpson.’
‘You think I killed her?’
‘We need to eliminate you from our enquiry.’
Jonny took a look at Bill’s calm face and relaxed.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes to catch him.’
‘Donna had an admirer,’ Bill told Rhona later. ‘Or Jonny suspects she did.’
‘Someone who might give her a rose?’
‘Remember the murderer we got because he shared an orange with his victim?’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Rhona said. ‘The drops of blood on the coverlet weren’t Donna’s.’
‘What about Jonny?’
‘We’re checking. We’ve also identified three types of head hair from the pillow. One is Donna’s. The other two are likely to be men. We have roots so a DNA analysis is possible. We’ll check them against Jonny. Chrissy’s taking a look at the sheets for semen.’
‘You think Donna was playing away?’
‘Could be. And there were traces of salbutomal on her hair.’
‘So someone asthmatic was close to her before she died?’
Rhona considered this. It wasn’t uncommon for rapists to take a shot of an inhaler before making their move on a victim. They were so worked up that an asthma attack could be on the cards.
‘There was no evidence of sexual assault,’ Bill reminded her.
‘Maybe watching Donna die was thrill enough.’
A smiling Chrissy left the lab at six to meet PC Williams, the young constable she had met the evening before. Rhona stayed on to work on the Bacardi Coke bottle. On arrival that morning, she’d filled an empty bottle with a mixture of plaster of Paris, stuck a thin wooden rod down the neck and set it to harden.
Now, using the rod as a handle, she took a small hammer and gently tapped the side of the bottle until it cracked in several places. Then she held it over the waste bin and gave the bottle three short sharp knocks. The glass fell away in dozens of shards.
Now she had a plastic replica of the bottle, she could start putting the murder weapon together again. Chrissy had laughed when Rhona produced the Bacardi Coke bottle that morning. She laughed even harder when she heard Rhona’s plan.
‘No chance,’ had been Chrissy’s expert opinion.
Rhona suspected Chrissy was right, but she had to give it a try.
She arranged all the pieces she’d picked up on a tray. She would start the long slow process of fitting the jigsaw together tomorrow.
Outside, Rhona shivered in the raw night air. She hadn’t brought the car. She could have tried for a taxi but decided to walk. Walking helped her think.
Street lights threw pools of yellow on grey puddles. The rain had dwindled to a faint mist that masked sound. Cars swished past throwing water in her path. Rhona strode on too absorbed to notice. In her head she was replaying the scene that had ended in Donna’s death.
Donna had been given a Bacardi Coke outside the ladies toilet. There were no signs of force so Donna took the drink willingly. But that didn’t mean she knew her murderer. Rhona hoped she did. If they were dealing with a psycho who had no link with the victim, it would be even more difficult to find him.
Bill had questioned Donna’s mates. They insisted Donna was seeing no one but Jonny. They also said they had seen nobody they knew on the night of the hen party. Only Tracey seemed wary. Wary and scared, according to Bill.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Where the fuck is she?’
Tracey couldn’t tell him the truth. ‘She’s not well.’
Belcher’s fat sweaty face grew redder.
‘Tell her she’s fired if she doesn’t turn up tomorrow night.’
He shoved a rose at Tracey. ‘You do it. Room five and make it good.’
The green baize walls and heavily carpeted hallway smothered all sound. Tracey passed four doors and stood outside number five, waiting for the double vodka to swim through her blood stream.
There were four of them. Spiked hair, designer stubble, muscled bodies under patterned short-sleeved shirts. A stag night maybe? Or just guys who liked getting off on girls like her.
‘Hi Rose. Come on in.’
They were seated round a circular table, three champagne bottles in the middle. One of them handed her a full glass and watched her drink it in a oner.
The music came on. She started on the blonde one with the pale eyes because he looked harmless. She unbuttoned his shirt and with the rose in her mouth traced his smooth chest, lower and lower until she reached his hardening crotch.
The others yelled in delight.
Jonny came in at midnight and took a seat at the bar. Tracey had finished her stint with the four guys and badly needed a drink. She didn’t see Jonny until it was too late.
He grabbed her arm and forced her onto the stool beside him. His face was a mask of hate.
‘She was still doing this, wasn’t she? That’s how she was paying for the fucking dress.’
Tracey didn’t answer.
‘It’s your fault she’s dead. You and the rest of her fucking friends.’
He was right. She had told Donna to stay on at the club. The money was good. She could buy the dress she wanted. She’d persuaded Donna that what Jonny didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
‘Some bastard gave her a rose. I want to know who it was.’
Tracey recoiled as though she’d been punched.
‘What?’
‘The police found a red rose at the flat. They think I gave it to her, but I didn’t, did I, Tracey?’
Tracey couldn’t speak. She was thinking about the dance she’d just performed. Rose’s dance.
When Jonny left, she headed for the toilet. She reached the cubicle just in time. A mix of vodka and champagne hit the pan. She pressed her face against the cool toilet seat, her body shaking.
Jonny had made her promise not to tell the police about Donna’s job here and the guy who kept coming back again and again to see her dance as Rose. He also made her promise to carry on do
ing what Belcher wanted.
‘They said you’re good,’ Belcher had told her when she’d finished with the four guys. ‘Very satisfying.’ He said the words like he had a hard-on himself. ‘You’re the new Rose.’ He poked a fat finger in her face. ‘And you can tell Donna that from me.’
She wanted to shout at him. ‘Donna’s dead you stupid bastard. She’s dead!’
But she had said nothing, her stomach tight with fear.
‘The sicko will come back,’ Jonny’s eyes had glinted revenge as he left. ‘He’ll be looking for another Rose. And I’ll be waiting for him.’
CHAPTER SIX
Mrs Harper opened her front door as Rhona came up the stairs. In her arms were a dozen red roses.
‘These were delivered this afternoon,’ she told Rhona with a wide smile.
Her neighbour had set her sights on seeing Rhona ‘settled down’ as she put it, and took a keen interest in her love life... when there was any.
Rhona waited until she was inside the flat before she looked at the card. It simply said ‘For you’.
The rush of pleasure the words brought surprised her. She hadn’t thought about Sean all day. She never mixed work and pleasure.
While the bath filled, she fed Chance and poured herself a glass of wine. Her kitchen window looked down on the gardens of a convent. In daylight it offered a tranquil scene. At night, soft light lit up a statue of the Virgin Mary that stood in the centre of the lawn.
The tolling of the convent bell for prayers was part of her life. Rhona loved its certainty, although for her there was no certainty in life, except death.
She slipped low in the water, enjoying the heat on her skin. Sex with Sean had been good. Better than good. Thinking about it now brought a second rush of pleasure.
The question was, did she want to get involved? Great sex was one thing. A proper relationship was another.
The buzzer went at midnight. Rhona knew it was Sean before she answered.
When she let him in, he stood uncertain in the hall.
‘I woke you,’ he said taking in the dressing gown.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I was reading.’
She was greedy for him but still she didn’t move.
‘Rhona...’
Then she was in his arms, her mouth on his. Her body screaming for him.
Later they lay in the dark, his heart beating gently against her cheek.
‘We’re good at this.’ His voice was light.
He was like her, she thought. Alone but not lonely. Self-contained. Maybe it would work?
‘We could give it a try?’ He echoed her own thoughts.
Rhona touched his nipple and felt it harden.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bill Wilson had interviewed the girlfriends again and got nowhere. They were adamant they had seen no-one they recognised on the hen night. Only when he asked them how they knew Donna, did they stumble. The stories they told him didn’t ring true. Especially Tracey’s.
She sat in front of him now, her eyes bloodshot, her brow slick with sweat. She was nursing a hangover or dealing with a drug habit or she was shit scared. Bill suspected the latter.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Tracey.’ He hated seeing the lassie in this state and it sounded in his voice.
She didn’t look at him, her hands plucking at the denim mini skirt. But he sensed her weakening.
‘We met at work... at a club called... Eden.’
He’d heard of it. He waited for her to go on.
‘Lap-dancing. Donna performed as Rose.’
‘Performed?’
‘She used a rose in the routine.’
He didn’t ask her to explain the routine. He had a pretty good idea already.
‘There was a guy. Came almost every night for weeks.’
‘You saw him?’
‘No. Rose... Donna told me about him though.’
‘What did she tell you?
‘He always brought his own rose. Made her dig the thorns into him.’
Bill felt the surge of excitement that came with the first breakthrough. Rhona had been right. The rose was important. Maybe even a direct link with the murderer.
‘Did Donna say what he looked like?’
She shook her head. ‘He was young. Worked out. That’s all.’
‘Thank you Tracey.’
She met his eyes. Hers were tearful. He thought of his own teenage daughter, as safe as he could keep her. It made Bill want to weep too. Mr Belcher wasn’t impressed to see Rhona and DI Wilson enter his club. He was even less impressed when they said they wanted to forensically examine the private room Rose danced in.
‘Rose is gone. I sacked her.’
‘Rose’s real name was Donna Stevens,’ Bill told him. ‘And Donna is dead, Mr Belcher. She was murdered.’
Belcher’s face was a mix of emotions and sympathy wasn’t one of them.
‘What has that got to do with my club?’
‘We think her murderer met her here.’
Belcher gave Bill a sharp look. ‘You don’t know that...’
‘We have trace material,’ Rhona interrupted. ‘If we find a match in the room...’
‘I won’t have my club involved in this.’
Bill ignored the bluster. ‘I want a list of all your regulars and their contact details.’
Belcher was growing paler by the minute. ‘Our customers are mostly casual.’
He was lying. It was written in big letters across his face. Rhona suspected there would be names on that list that didn’t want to see the light of day. Bill didn’t care.
‘And include a list of all credit card payments.’
Belcher showed them to room five, then scuttled off to call his lawyer.
‘I’ll manage here,’ Rhona told Bill.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Give me an hour.’
The room was too warm and smelt of perfume and stale cigarette smoke. It didn’t look clean either, which suited Rhona fine. She locked the door and went on to sample every inch of the hideous green carpet.
The roses for the performance were usually supplied by the management. But one customer brought his own. A crushed petal from that rose could be a link to Donna’s flat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She needed the money. That’s what Tracey kept reminding herself. She had told the police. She’d done all she could.
Belcher had insisted she use Donna’s area of the dressing room as though it was a move up in the world. In the mirror her face was a mask of glossed lips and blackened eyes. Tracey rubbed the rose-scented oil into her skin and put on the red thong and bra.
Room seven had become the Rose room for tonight, Belcher told her. He did not explain why. Her first customer was waiting.
It was the blonde guy from the foursome. He looked sheepish, scared even. She remembered his embarrassment. His cock had shrivelled when she’d unzipped him.
‘I wanted to apologise for my mates,’ he began.
‘You could have done that without paying.’
His eyes ran over her, fastening on her breasts.
‘If you just like looking...’
He nodded.
She reached round and unhooked the bra. Her breasts fell, oiled and heavy.
Two glasses of chilled champagne stood on the table. He handed her one. She touched her nipple and made it harden, watching his reaction. At least he only wanted to look.
The heavily carpeted corridor was deserted but Rhona sensed people behind the row of closed doors.
Belcher came hurrying over as she re-entered the bar. His attempt at a smile made him look like a gargoyle in the purple light. His lawyer must have told him to co-operate ... up to a point.
‘You’ve finished? Good.’
‘Is Tracey here?’
The smile disappeared. He made a show of checking the reservation book.
‘I’m afraid Tracey’s dancing at the moment.’
Rhona took a seat at the b
ar.
‘I’ll wait.’
His eyes darted about. He was working out whether that would put the punters off.
‘If you’d like to wait in my office?’
‘Here’s fine.’
Belcher gave up and nodded at the barman who slid the drinks list across the counter. Rhona glanced at the prices. It wasn’t only private dance routines that cost the earth in here.
The smile was pasted back on Belcher’s face.
‘On the house of course.’
Rhona ordered a mineral water and took a good look round. The clients were all male except for herself and a girl wrapped round a pole. Rhona recognised the girl as one of the devils from the hen party. Her eyes were glazed, her movements were fluid. The pole was holding her up.
Young men circled the stage, faces eager and aroused. Round the walls the men who didn’t fancy being seen were in dark booths. Now and again Belcher appeared and led a group through the green door for their private session.
By the time Bill came back, Rhona had been chatted up twice. Once by a guy old enough to be her father. The second time by a guy young enough to be her son. She was glad to see Bill.
‘How’d it go?’ he said.
‘Fine. I asked to speak to Tracey.’
‘And?’
‘She’s dancing.’
Belcher was showing in the next group. Bill stepped in front of him.
‘Get Tracey in here now.’
Belcher’s mouth opened and shut a few times.
‘I’ll send her out.’
When he re-appeared he was alone, an irritated look on his face.
‘Tracey’s gone.’
‘If this is a wind up...’
Belcher shook his head. ‘She was in seven, the Rose room for tonight. With a single guy. The room’s empty and she’s not in the dressing area.’
Rhona pushed past him, a sick feeling in her stomach.
The door to seven stood open. An oily scent of roses hit her at the entrance. That and the musky smell of sex.
CHAPTER NINE
One girl dead and another girl missing. Rhona didn’t want to think that something bad had happened to Tracey.
If she was as scared as Tracey, she would probably run. Which is what she hoped Tracey had done.