by Linda Coles
“A bit extreme, don’t you think, doing what she’s been doing?”
“Probably, but who understands criminals’ reasons? I know I never will. She’s just another weirdo, in my book. The funny thing is, she’s so detached from it all, like she’s not the one that’s been committing the crimes, even though she is.”
“But she’s talking and still admitting it, then?”
“Yes, like the proverbial singing canary. Shown no remorse, no regrets. Knew she’d probably get caught at some point, but didn’t think it would be quite so soon. Apparently, it made her physically sick, the actual act. Didn’t enjoy it all. Can you believe that?”
“So that’s okay, then? She didn’t enjoy it?” Amanda was incredulous. She thought for a moment. “Hang on a minute. I’m betting she wasn’t physically sick in the victims’ toilets or sinks. There would have been traces left behind. We found a bag of vomit in a rubbish bin near the first victim’s home, and there was another not far from the second victim’s, left in a doorway.”
“I remember one of ours finding it. What are you getting at?” It was Rick’s turn to speak.
“Nothing, really. Just tying up loose ends in my head, and the two bags of vomit were still loose. Assuming they were both hers. A bit of a coincidence if not, wouldn’t you say? Proves she had a weak stomach for it but I doubt the judge will take it into account. Both took some considerable planning, premeditated for sure. She’ll go down for some time, a lot more than her dad did.” Thinking again, she asked, “Do we know yet how she got into their lives, all three of them?”
“Used social media to make friends and dig from there, though not with her second victim, Sebastian. He wasn’t particularly active like the other two, and he would have been much harder to infiltrate, I suspect—not your average man. She says she got into his laptop and pretended to be one of the girls he paid for regularly. Philippa intercepted the booking somehow and pretended to be her. That was the other woman you saw entering and leaving his building that night, the real escort.”
Rick picked it up. “Did she say if she still has his laptop? It was missing and he definitely had one, but it’s never surfaced.”
“I would doubt it ever will. She’s been real careful so far, apart from telling someone she was with a pilot up north, that is. No names, no definite locations. Could be wrong, though. It could be under her floorboards at home. No doubt the search will find it if it’s there.”
“Hmm, shame. I’d like to look into Sebastian Stevens a little more if I could, separately from this. And his search history might be useful, searches he particularly made from a computer at home rather than the office.” Amanda chewed her bottom lip and screwed her face up as she thought.
“What are you thinking, Amanda?” Duncan asked.
“It seems he had some rather eclectic tastes in the bedroom department, namely blood and knife play, if you’ve ever heard of it. Apparently, your partner makes little slits with a hellishly sharp knife, mainly into the thigh area, drawing blood. A type of BDSM practice which he was obviously into. Not sure you could pay me enough to have that done, and from what I can gather, he didn’t always pay. I know of at least one victim that suspects he drugged her and then took his knife to her, so there could possibly be more. And of course, if you don’t know what you’re doing, it can be horrendously dangerous. Cut a main artery by accident and it’s all over.”
“But the guy is dead. Why bother?”
“Because if he was part of something bigger, a dangerous fetish ring perhaps, he could afford to be selective about who he did it with and pay the women off easily, keeping them quiet. It was fifteen years ago for the victim I know of, so things may have progressed somewhat from there. Doing it with a willing partner, fair enough. But drugging someone for your own pleasure? That makes it a crime. His web history might help with that.”
Duncan scratched his head. “You thinking something on the dark web, then?”
“Maybe. A character like Sebastian Stevens wouldn’t get what he wanted from regular sources, though when we contact the agency where he hired the woman he was supposed to meet on the night of his death, they might be able to tell us more.” Amanda looked around at the blank faces of the other three men. “Look, call it women’s intuition if you like, but I sense there was something going on in the back of his life. Something we don’t fully know about yet, something that may hurt others, even though he’s gone. I’m just saying, humour me for now, let me ride with it for a while.”
Duncan, Rick and Carl all looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders in passive agreement. If Amanda wanted to go digging, it was no skin off their noses.
“That’s settled, then,” she said. “If you find anything, particularly a laptop, just let me know. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Thing is, if it is on the dark web, you’ll never find it via the browser history. It’s a lot trickier than simply typing in a URL. You’ll need something or someone else other than that. But go ahead, knock yourself out.” Rick was trying to be helpful and it set Amanda thinking. Maybe Ruth could give her some pointers before she made a fool of herself and went to computer forensics.
Changing the subject, she said, “Right, well, I’m off to get some lunch. Anyone care to join me before we head back?”
Rick and Duncan both stood, smiling at the thought of good food. And decent coffee.
Epilogue
“Shame it all turned to shit up there,” said Ruth. “I was quite looking forward to a weekend away with you after we’d dropped Stephanie at the cottage. But it wasn’t meant to be.” She stroked Amanda’s blonde hair; Amanda was using her thighs as a pillow as the two of them shared the sofa back at her place. “Maybe we can go again, just the two of us—walk the hills and look at the Lakes, do the touristy thing.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me you heard all that, or were you miles away thinking about work still?” Ruth was used to Amanda not always being present at quiet times like these. It was one of her foibles, but one that made her a decent detective. When a case went on without a result, it played on her mind, and Ruth was glad that the latest crime had all been wrapped up.
“I did, and to answer your question, which wasn’t actually a question I should add, yes, it was a shame. A walk in the fells would have been a welcome break, but it was a stroke of luck how we ended up solving the case at the same time—and that we were nearby. If Georgia hadn’t seen that blurry face shot on the CCTV footage, and noticed the scarf and overheard Rick’s vet comment, we’d probably still be hunting the hunter. She might have gone on to kill even more after Aaron. We got lucky, and Aaron certainly got away with his life. Perfect timing all round I’d say.”
“It can’t be nice dropping your friend in to the police, though. What if Georgia had been wrong? Imagine the mess—her friend being put under the microscope. It would have destroyed their friendship if she’d been wrong. It would be tough to ride that one out. She really is a brave one.”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s over with. I just hope the walking wounded can get their lives in some sort of order. Poor Stephanie has been through the wringer, and she’s decided to give him the boot. It will be tough on the boys, I expect, but the slime-ball couldn’t help himself. How can you come back from that and work it into something loving and trusting? You’d need a miracle. But to each their own. They may find a way in the future. Too early to tell. For now, they’re going to exist in separate lives.”
Ruth carried on stroking Amanda’s hair; the soothing tones of Sinatra played quietly in the background, and a breeze filtered through the open window. Summer was starting to make itself more comfortable, each day and evening warmer than the last. It was such a welcome time of year.
“That feels good. It’s so relaxing here with you, Ruth.” Amanda fell silent, reflecting. “That was another stroke of luck,” she said at last, “working on that dog-fighting case. If not for that, I’d never have met you.” Lifting her he
ad up to face Ruth, she asked, “Do you remember the little terrier with his tan-coloured patch across one eye? Jack, he was called.”
“Of course I do. You’d just dropped him off back to his owners before coming round to my place for tea and toast, if I remember rightly. Why do you ask?”
“Just that he was the catalyst in us getting together, my excuse to call back round here. I knew you’d want to know he’d been returned safely, and yes, I could have called on the phone but, well, in person did the trick,” she said, smiling sheepishly.
Ruth bent forward and planted a kiss tenderly on the top of her head. Amanda sat up and turned properly to look up at her best friend. Their eyes locked.
Ruth spoke first. “Then we should ask him to be a page boy at our ceremony. He could wear a little bow tie around his neck.”
For a moment, neither woman said a word. Then Ruth spoke again, her voice deadly serious and full of love.
“Amanda Lacey, will you marry me?”
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Linda Coles
Published by Blue Banana
Chapter One
Her eyes flickered briefly, like an almost-gone candle, and then slowly opened. Her eyelids were heavy, and she struggled with the desire to keep them closed. Heavy from what, she’d no idea. With an effort, she wrenched them open, and now another problem presented itself. Where the hell was she?
The glow in the room was dusky orange, the lamp in the corner the only thing giving light; the world outside the window was dull and dark grey. Her hand reached out and felt where she was lying. The satiny fabric of the sofa told her she wasn’t at home; her own sofa didn’t feel this way. And there was a soft, pale green blanket draped over her. She didn’t have one of those. Sitting up, she licked her lips; her mouth was parched dry as a biscuit and her head buzzed with a sound like a drone hovering around her ears. She looked around the room and noticed the tea tray set out on the table in front of her, a single empty cup and a plate of uneaten tiny triangles of delicate sandwiches without crusts. A slight curl at the edge told her they’d been there a while; the day was warm and no match for soft, fresh bread.
So, where was she? And more importantly, how had she gotten there? And even more importantly, why was she there, wherever ‘there’ was? With no immediate answers to her questions, she took in the rest of the dimly lit room. It gave her no clues. Orienting herself, she stood on wobbly legs and walked to the door. She turned the handle, which opened easily, and, holding the door carefully open, looked out into an empty though somewhat familiar space. The corridor looked like any other hotel corridor in London: thickly carpeted, traditional styled art adorning the walls at sporadic intervals. She stepped back inside and shut the door again, deep in thought. The room was quiet, save for the hum of distant traffic and the odd car horn blaring, more or less a constant in London.
A quick scrutiny of herself told her she felt fine, apart from her dusty mouth and the drone stuck inside her head. Her clothes were all still in place, and she seemed not to have been harmed in any way. But something felt different, lost almost, and she couldn’t place what it was. It was weird. Had she fallen ill and someone taken her in, looked after her? Why was the blanket covering her when she woke, and where had the food come from? Where were these people? Closing the door, she wandered around the room a little, taking in the large undisturbed king bed, the luxury unused bathroom and the sitting area where she’d woken up only moments ago. An envelope propped up on the ornate desk caught her eye. There was one word written on it – Taylor. So, somebody knew her name – that was obvious. Picking it up, she slid the expensive-feeling embossed card out and read the message.
Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.
It was beautifully handwritten in a fancy, styled font. Sliding her finger over the words, she guessed quite rightly it had been written with ink. Not from a cheap plastic pen, but from a fountain pen; that in itself was quite uncommon, and something she knew a little about. Confusion still clouded her head: what had happened, exactly, and what debt was the sender talking about? She caught her own reflection in the gilt mirror over the desk and gave an involuntary scream. In place of her long, wavy cognac locks was one short stump, still secured by a hair tie. Panicked, she raised her hand and tentatively touched her head.
Someone had stolen her glorious hair.
Chapter Two
Twenty-four hours earlier
Taylor stood patiently at the check-in desk, surrounded by a long snaking queue of other travellers. Newark airport was just like any other – the noise of chatter in languages from across the globe, the hugs and tears of loved ones leaving, the excited cries of children off on the trip of a lifetime.
But for Taylor, the trip ahead signified the end of an era, an era of twelve months in New York working for one of the best galleries in the world, dealing with some of the most sought-after antiques money could buy. And money did buy them, in obscene amounts, but that was the very wealthy for you. When they were willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a glass of the finest champagne available, millions was small change for the purchase of whatever they desired. She’d enjoyed her time living in the city, though her tiny flat was nothing spectacular, unlike the items she worked with, but it had suited her and the location was perfect. Going back home to London would mean a huge adjustment but she eyed it as another chapter in her life, another story to be written, another adventure all her own. She’d make it work; she always did. She shuffled forward, her two large bags on a trolley in front, passport at the ready. The desk in front became free and the attendant beckoned her over. Taylor gave her name and handed her passport over.
“Good morning, Miss. Palmer.” Her east coast accent rolled over Taylor in a way she knew she was going to miss.
“Morning.”
“I have good news for you: you have been upgraded to First Class, no less.”
Taylor stuttered a little as she replied, “Pardon? Are you sure? How come?”
“It doesn’t tell me. I’m sorry, but you definitely have been issued with a First Class ticket. There is no mistake. Is that alright, Miss Palmer?”
Taylor didn’t need to think long, and the smile that broke out on her face confirmed to the attendant it was, indeed, okay.
The attendant carried on. “Today is your lucky day – perhaps I might suggest you buy a lottery ticket?” Her smile was sincere. She handed Taylor her boarding pass for the trip back to London – in First Class. “Enjoy your flight.”
“Oh, I think I will. Thank you.” With her luggage handed over, Taylor carried on towards security and passport control, a smile on her beautiful young face at the stroke of good luck. Never in all her times of travelling throughout the world had she ever been upgraded, but there was a first time for everything, and right then, she really didn’t care. It was a shame the journey back wasn’t even longer so she could enjoy the full experience, though; she’d always wanted a glass of the real McCoy in a crystal flute. Now she might just get one.
Behind her and well out of sight, a tall, dapper-looking silver fox of a man stood watching her delighted smile. The corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly as he strained to catch odd words of her conversation with the check-in attendant, gauge her reaction in full, but her body language gave him the verification he needed, nay, hoped for. Her hair gently flowed over her shoulders as she moved, mesmerizing him with its shimmer, and he hoped he wasn’t staring too much; otherwise he’d get caught. All around him the hustle of the airport carried on, but he was lost in his tho
ughts as long as she stood there, fixed to the spot as though his feet had been glued to the tiles beneath them. He was glad he’d been able to get her a place in First Class, give her the gift, and all without her knowing it had been he. This was as he’d wanted it to be: he’d asked the check-in attendant not to tell a soul he’d been the one to upgrade her. He’d said it would be a nice surprise; she was a friend of his daughter’s and hadn’t seen her for some time. She’d be thrilled, he’d said.
The attendant had smiled at his generosity. “What a lovely thing to do,” she’d said. And so it had all been organized; the young woman was none the wiser. When she finally took her seat later, they’d sit next to one another in comfortable silence, perhaps even make small talk, he safe in the knowledge he’d given her something nice, something she’d enjoy, look back on with delight. Then he could be repaid in full, at a time that suited him. And suited his needs. That, he knew, would be quite soon.
She had just what he desired. Watching her move away towards the gate, her Louis Vuitton bag balancing in the crook of her elbow, he pulled his phone out and activated an app, knowing the rest would happen seamlessly while he was in the air. Seated next to her.
Chapter Three
Taylor relaxed back in her reclining chair, her legs stretched out in front, and marvelled at the soft leather and how the other half travelled. She’d only been on board a few minutes and already the attendant had served her a glass of champagne at her seat – and they hadn’t even taken off yet. Glancing around the small private cabin, she took in the surroundings. The large leather seats, the state of the art personal screens, the space each passenger could enjoy in their own capsule-like environment, the smart bag containing toiletries and pyjamas to slip into later. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and her delight was obvious.