by Helen Phifer
Both women had been out drinking; their judgement would have been clouded by the alcohol they’d consumed, making them easy targets. It would be far less trouble to overpower someone who was unsteady on their feet than it would if they were stone-cold sober. This in Lucy’s eyes made the killer a fucking coward: was he afraid that he wouldn’t be able to handle a woman in control of all her senses? Did this mean he harboured some hatred towards women who were out drinking and having a good time? They would need to speak to all the pubs and clubs in town, asking them to keep an eye out for any males on their own eyeing up women. They could also put posters in the ladies’ toilets warning them not to walk home alone, to pre-book a taxi or go home with friends. She’d speak to Tom about this – although what if the perpetrator were a taxi driver? She was scribbling it all down in her notepad. At least there were plenty of options to try to do something to prevent another murder.
Patrick walked past her office and she wondered how he was getting on with the body in the woods. She wanted to know, but was damned if she’d ask him. He suddenly stopped and turned around. She picked up the phone on her desk, but he came straight into her office before she could even dial a number.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Busy. Have you got any news about the body?’
He shrugged. ‘Oh yes. That doctor was asking where you were; he reckons that it’s a woman. Something to do with the size of her pelvis.’
‘At least she’s been found. On Wednesday night a man turned up at the scene waving a photograph of his missing daughter.’ She pulled open the desk drawer, took one more glance at the cute kid and passed the photo to him.
He stepped forward to have a look.
‘It’s tragic, but it would be good if it was her in a terrible kind of way, if you know what I mean,’ Lucy continued. ‘Her poor family must be so distraught not knowing what happened to her or where she is.’
He stared at the picture and nodded. ‘Thanks. Yes, it would be horrible yet such a relief. Do you mind if I keep hold of this? I can show it to your doctor friend and see if he can match it up to the bones. Not that I’m a hundred per cent sure they can, but they seem to do all sorts of magic crap like that on the TV.’
She smiled at him. ‘My doctor friend is called Chris and he helped me out big time with a major investigation. He’s just an associate.’
Patrick grinned back at her. ‘In that case, do you fancy going out for a drink after work?’
Lucy’s breath caught in the back of her throat. He was easy on the eye. But she knew from back in the days when they’d worked together that he was a prick, and that was the last thing she needed in her life right now.
‘I can’t, sorry. Too much on.’
He shrugged and walked away, over to the desk where he had been working, opposite Browning. He flopped down into the chair. She felt a little guilty; they hadn’t parted on the best of terms the last time she’d seen him. He was older now and probably a hell of a lot wiser than he had been back then.
Toby, who was at the vending machine, had been observing Lucy. Despite the fact that she terrified him, she was so cool and in control of everything, which he found very attractive. He wished that the CSI office looked onto Lucy’s; then he could watch her all day. His chocolate bar juddered halfway along the metal spiral and then got stuck. He shoved the machine but the chocolate still didn’t budge.
‘Here, you need to shake it. I found that out this morning after I’d put a quid in.’
He spun around to see Patrick standing behind him, then stepped to one side and watched as he grabbed the machine with both hands and rattled it until the bar of chocolate dropped into the slot below.
‘Thank you.’ He grabbed it and began walking as fast as he could until he was back in his office. He wasn’t very good at making polite conversation. He sat down at his desk and marvelled that he was actually here, doing the job he’d dreamt about for years. His love of photography and the fact that he’d saved up and paid the fees himself to complete the nine-week residential course at the National Training Centre in Durham had helped him through the difficult interview process. He’d known that if this opportunity hadn’t come up, another one would in a different area. He had no partner or children to consider, so he could move around at short notice.
When Toby finally got into his car, he let out a huge sigh. He’d had no idea this job would be so full-on. There was a lead ball rolling around in his stomach and he didn’t know why. Today had gone pretty well at work, but he didn’t like that he was the new boy and everyone kept staring at him as if he had two heads. He’d warmed to Amanda; she seemed like a decent enough person. He wasn’t sure about her husband Jack, though; he was grumpy. Amanda had said it was because he’d been promoted to crime scene manager, which offered more money, but also even more stress. He’d wondered if it was even allowed for a husband and wife to work in the same department, but then again it must be or they wouldn’t be doing it. It didn’t help that he kept continually asking the pair of them questions, but what else was he supposed to do? He wanted to be good at his job – his training was okay and he knew the basics. Only the basics weren’t good enough; he wanted to be the best.
As he parked up outside the large house in the leafy suburb of Brooklyn Bay, he stared at the front door. He loved being alone – he always had been a bit of a loner at school. He’d been the nerd with the black-rimmed glasses who always wore dark clothes and kept his head down. It wasn’t his fault he’d had to move around a lot so never made any real friends. He grabbed his carrier bag from the car and went inside. He hadn’t had a girlfriend for a while now; he found it quite hard to approach women, always reverting back to his awkward fifteen-year-old self. He’d been assessing all the response officers today at work; there were a few potentials that he could ask out for a drink if he could pluck up the courage. The one woman who had really made an impression, though, was Detective Inspector Lucy Harwin.
In the kitchen he took the ready-made chilli he hadn’t had time to eat at work out of the bag, pierced the film and put it into the microwave. He opened the fridge and looked at the wine rack full of champagne bottles. How nice it would be for him to invite Lucy over for a proper home-cooked meal. Open a bottle or two of champagne and then kick back on the huge sofa and listen to some music. His fantasy was broken by the loud beep of the microwave. Even though he was geeky and shy, he was quite good at getting what he wanted and he’d decided that what he wanted was Lucy.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He left his car a short distance away and walked along the deserted stretch of road to reach their street. There were lights on in the last two houses; he squeezed himself as close to the hedgerow in the shadows as possible. The middle house was lit up, both inside and out: a bright lamp outside the front door and spotlights along the driveway leading up to it. The Roman blinds were all closed, which was good; whoever lived there would have no idea he was outside.
The last house, which was the one he wanted, was also illuminated from the inside. The exterior was in complete darkness; though it had the same porch lamp, there was no bulb inside. He’d noticed that earlier when he’d jogged past, pretending to be out for a run. He never usually ran unless he had to, but today it had been a good disguise. He could see through the large lounge windows now. He crept towards the house, peeking in to see the kid lying on the floor. He was surrounded by a circle of Matchbox cars, all of them colour-coordinated. The television was on and he could see various X-Men fighting with each other on the screen. The boy turned to look at the window and he stepped back, his heart racing. Had he sensed that he was there? He hoped not as he stole around to the back of the house. If the kid had seen him he’d have run to tell his mum and she’d be on the phone to the police.
Counting to ten, he looked through the kitchen window. The woman had her back to him as she slammed the dishwasher drawer shut. The kid hadn’t come in, thankfully. She turned, not facing the window directly but enough that he
had a clear view of her face. She looked tired. As if to confirm his observation, she let out a huge yawn. Then she picked up a glass full of clear liquid and ice cubes from the kitchen counter and downed it. He wondered what her spirit of choice was – gin or vodka? She went over to a batch of cupcakes sitting on a baking tray next to the cooker and lifted them up one by one, placing them onto a wire cooling rack. He liked their pirate-themed cases, with skulls and crossbones on them. It had been such a long time since he’d eaten a homemade cake; he felt his stomach rumble at the thought. His mum had been quite a good baker.
The woman left the kitchen and he had to rush back around the house to the lounge. The kid was still lying on the floor. He turned to smile at the woman as she walked in and held her hand out towards him. The boy was rubbing his eyes as he pushed himself up and grabbed her hand. It felt strange watching these two as they carried out what was probably their night-time ritual. The husband’s car wasn’t here, which could be a problem. He would need to be quick; he didn’t want to risk him coming home whilst he was in the middle of killing his family. It would be easier to take him out on his own – less risky.
He stepped away from the window next to the front door and waited for her to come and lock it. He waited and waited, but there was no sound of a key being turned or, if it was already locked, the handle being tried to double-check it. This was either a very foolish woman or one with a great sense of security. He checked out the perimeter of the house to see if there were any open windows, just in case the door was locked. There was a small window ajar on the second floor, which would make things difficult, but it was better than nothing. He sat down on a cast-iron garden chair and waited once more. He wanted to give her enough time to put the kid to bed before he made his move.
Michelle took her son upstairs and they brushed their teeth together. She tucked Arran into bed, reading him his favourite bedtime story, ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’, from the huge book of fairy tales which had belonged to her when she was a child. The pages were loose and falling out, but he wouldn’t part with it, which she thought was sweet. He was asleep before she got to the end of the story and he looked so peaceful. It was no wonder he was tired. When she cried it made her exhausted; with the amount of screaming and crying he’d done today he should probably sleep for a week. How amazing it would be if he slept in and didn’t wake her up at the crack of dawn like he usually did. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past six. Closing the book, she placed it on the small chest of drawers next to his bed, bent down and kissed his forehead. She turned off the main light but left his nightlight on because he hated the dark. She loved him so much her heart ached. Why did life have to be so hard?
Climbing into her pyjamas, she was about to turn off her bedside lamp when she heard a muffled thud. She paused to listen and see if it happened again, but it didn’t. It was probably Arran knocking something off his bed in his sleep. He had so much crap on there it amazed her that he could ever get comfortable. For once she thought how nice it would have been if Craig had been home to see how adorable their son really was. Instead he preferred to spend his time hunched over his computer at the office, probably flirting or, God forbid, doing something more with Sally from accounts. If it weren’t for the fact that he brought home a lot of money, which meant that they could afford for her not to work, then she’d have probably called it a day by now. Neither of them was particularly happy at the moment – maybe they could go for marriage counselling. She would mention it to him in the morning and see what he thought. Anything had to be worth a go to bring back the spark in their ever-so-dull marriage. Her eyes began to close and she rolled onto her side, facing away from the door. She pulled the heavy duvet over her head. That large shot of gin was a better sleep inducer than any sleeping tablet she’d ever tried.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tom was late for work. He hated being late, much preferring to be early. The fact that they had three bathrooms and he’d been unable to get into any one of them for a shower had pissed him off. He dashed out to the car, which his wife had kindly left parked halfway up the narrow dead-end road, facing the wrong way. He cursed out loud, getting into the car while trying his best not to spill the strong black coffee he was carrying down the front of his suit. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’d left it here on purpose. He always made the effort to either park on the drive or at least leave the car facing the right way. Well, Alison could bugger off; tonight he’d leave it parked outside Craig’s house. Let the lazy cow take a hike the next time she had to rush off to get her nails painted, or when she was running late for yoga.
Slotting the coffee cup into the holder, he put the window down. It wasn’t particularly warm out, but he was overheating with all the rushing. He started the car and drove up to Craig’s house; they wouldn’t mind if he used their drive to turn around. As he pulled into the drive, the front door to the large detached house blew open in the breeze. Craig’s car was parked there so they must be in. He’d probably gone back into the house for something. Tom didn’t give the fact that all the lights were on even though it was daylight a second thought as he reversed out of the driveway. He had a lot to do today and he wanted Lewis Waite back in the cells and charged with murder – if only to make his life a little easier.
The incident room was busy. On the large whiteboards there were photographs of Stacey Green and Melanie Benson, alive and dead. The search of Stacey’s flat had been successful; there were fingerprints on the bathroom windowsill that were a match for Lewis Waite’s. There had also been a half-empty can of cola on the coffee table, which Lucy could almost guarantee would bring up a match for his DNA. The flat, however, wasn’t the primary crime scene – the backstreet was – and up to now they had nothing from the scene or Stacey’s body that could be linked back to Lewis Waite. He was their number-one person of interest, but Lucy still had a gut feeling that he wasn’t the killer.
That didn’t mean that he didn’t know who the killer was, though, or that he hadn’t had something to do with it. To her it seemed that Lewis might be caught up in a whole world of shit that had nothing to do with him. He was still wanted for breaking and entering because if he’d had a legitimate reason to be inside Stacey’s flat he would have used the front door. Guests didn’t usually climb into people’s flats through the bathroom window. So he had been up to something – she just didn’t think it was murder. It didn’t make any sense; he wouldn’t have killed her in the backstreet, then gone into her flat to sleep. If he knew he could get in, he’d have waited inside for her to come home and then killed her. At least, that’s what she’d have done; but you never could tell.
Browning was typing up everything they had so far onto HOLMES. He didn’t look happy this morning and she wondered if he was okay. He hadn’t spoken much to any of them; instead he’d reverted back to his normal, sullen self. She’d take him to one side later and check if he was all right; she didn’t want him to go back to being a miserable bastard. She liked the new improved, funnier version.
Mattie, who was on the phone to someone, pointed at Browning and she nodded – so he’d picked up on it as well. Col was sitting with his head bent as his fingers flew over the computer keyboard, doing every conceivable background check on the victim and suspect. This was now known as Operation Swift: each serious case was given its own name to make it easier to distinguish between them. Stacey’s post-mortem hadn’t picked up anything that they didn’t already know, apart from the blue fibre, even though Catherine had been her usual, diligent self. There had been no sign of sexual assault and no semen had been found anywhere on the body. So despite it looking like a sexually motivated homicide, it wasn’t – at least not in the conventional way. The killer hadn’t left behind any traces of himself. Neither had Waite, the voice in her head reminded her.
So what the hell was this? Some kind of stranger-killing, a revenge murder, or just pure bad luck that Stacey Green was in the wrong place at the wrong time?
And what about Melanie Benson? Why had the killer chosen those two out of all the women he could have? What made them so special? She was staring at the whiteboards, waiting for the answer to jump out at her.
She went to get her mobile from her desk, passing Patrick, who was sitting at his computer looking at BBC News. She shook her head; he hadn’t impressed her much yet. At this rate she’d be taking over the woman in the woods case and solving that as well before he pulled his finger out. It irked her; surely it was pretty straightforward. All he had to do was track down the original missing persons report for Jenny Burns. It would be boxed up in the archives somewhere; even if it took him a morning it was better than wasting time on the internet. Once he found the report he could get the details and go and visit her parents; revisit the last people who had seen her before she’d disappeared. She was tempted to go and suggest this to him, but surely he would know what to do? He was the same rank as her – he must have a bit of an inclination as to how to do his job. Grabbing her phone off the desk, she checked her messages.
There had been no sightings of Lewis Waite. He’d gone to ground, which wasn’t what Lucy had wanted to happen. Some scroat must be hiding him away; he must have spun them some bullshit story about why the police were searching for him. Because they were – there was a six-man task force team tracking down every acquaintance that he had to their addresses, which were held on the computer system. Already three doors had been put through and the council had fielded several complaints about why the police hadn’t bothered to ask for keys to the flats. Lucy hoped that someone had told them the reason: that they didn’t have time for niceties. They needed Waite locked up and answering questions now.