Too Close For Comfort (2 page)

The body lay
lifeless on the ground, just as Ella Barrington’s had. Her blue,
lifeless skin looked ice cold against the searing summer’s day.

“He’s had a
right good go at her, guv.”

Wendy never
ceased to be amazed at the specialist talent of SOCO – stating the
bleeding obvious.

“We can see
that. What have we got?”

“You’d be
better off asking what we haven't got. She's been suffocated,
strangled, and her throat has been slashed. Sound familiar? Someone
wanted this woman dead, and they weren’t going to mess about with
it.”

“What else do
we have?”

“Well we’re
pretty sure that it’s the same guy who did Ella Barrington. There
are a number of patterns that link the two. I’d go out on a limb to
say we’re definitely looking a serial killer.”

“Fantastic. You
always know how to brighten my day, you SOCO lot. Tell me more
about these patterns.”

“Well, there’s
still a lot we need to look at. I can tell you that the killer was
almost definitely right-handed.”

“What makes you
say that?”

“See these
slash marks? You can see the entry point of the knife and the way
the pressure has been applied. We can tell from the knots, too.
They were almost definitely tied by a right-handed person.”

Wendy shot a
wry smirk in Culverhouse’s direction. It was met by a faint, but
definite grudging nod of acceptance.

“You noting
this down, Baxter?”

No answer.
Culverhouse spun around to where PC Luke Baxter had been standing.
He was gone.

“Fucking hell,
that’s all we need. Did anyone see him move?”

“Nothing, guv.
He was stood behind us all, so he could be anywhere.”

“You’re really
helping, Knight. You’re really fucking helping.”

The officers
split into three groups and spread across the moor to look for
Luke, while two SOCOs stayed at the crime scene. Wendy and
Culverhouse were in a pair, and headed toward the wooded area at
the edge of the common.

“Permission to
say I told you so, guv?”

Culverhouse’s
silence told Wendy everything she needed to know. As they
approached the edge of the common, Culverhouse began to call out.
Wendy could sense exasperation in his voice – or was it
desperation?

“Baxter?
BAXTER
!
”

PC Luke Baxter
came jogging out of the woods in front of them.

“What is it,
guv?”

“Where the
fuck
have you been? We’ve got a fucking search party out for
you!”

“Sorry, guv. I,
uh, wanted to explore the wider area a bit more. Get a feel for the
crime scene, you know.”

Culverhouse’s
eyes moved towards the vomit stain on Baxter’s uniform vest.

“Got a feel of
this morning’s breakfast at the same time, did you?”

Wendy was
delighting inside as Baxter’s face turned an impressive shade of
red.

As they
returned to the body, Culverhouse continued his conversation with
the SOCO.

“You were
saying?”

“Yes. The
interesting thing, Detective Chief Inspector, is that the killer
has made no attempt to conceal either this young lady’s body, or
that of Ella Barrington. As you can see, we’re wide out in the
middle of the Common. We’d usually expect to find a body buried or
at least hidden in the undergrowth. It’s almost as if he wanted her
to be found.”

Wendy, stunned,
interjected.

“He?”

“Oh, yes. We’re
almost certainly looking at a man. The brutality of the struggle is
evident and, with the greatest respect, there’s no way a woman tied
knots like these.”

Culverhouse
seemed to ignore what he deemed to be rather obvious.

“Do we have a
positive ID yet?”

“Yes – she
still had her bag and purse on her. It doesn’t seem as though your
man made any attempt to steal anything. She’s Maria Preston – a
well known local prostitute.”

“We’ll end up
with a shortage if we’re not careful.” A ripple of nervous laughter
followed Culverhouse’s remark.

“Right, well it
looks as though we’ve got our biggest link yet. Two murders, two
prostitutes.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

That evening,
as Wendy made her way to her brother’s flat, she couldn’t help but
play the same line over and over in her head.

It’s almost as
if he wanted her to be found.

Why on Earth
would the killer want his victims to be found so easily? Why would
he not want their flesh to decay, their bodies to rot so badly that
the police could not identify them as easily as they otherwise
could? Did he want the police to find him just as easily? The
questions kept encircling Wendy’s mind.

Michael’s flat
was situated in a less-than-desirable part of Mildenheath, to say
the least.

As Wendy drove
through the dark, dimly-lit streets, she recalled the last time
she’d visited Michael’s flat. Cigarette ash was sprinkled all over
the sodden furniture and a mixture of blood, semen and sweat had
worked its way into the filthy carpets. Wendy shuddered as she
anticipated the scene she would witness this time.

She parked her
car in a well-lit corner of the communal car park and made her way
up the metal staircase that scaled the front wall of the
building.

As she entered
the flat, Wendy felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. The siblings
that had shared parents; shared a household; shared a childhood.
How could they grow up to be such entirely different people?

“It’s good to
see you again, Wend.”

“And you,
Michael. How are you bearing up?”

“Yeah, pretty
good actually. That’s why I called you over. I’m starting to pick
myself up. As you can see, I’m already getting the flat in
order.”

Wendy looked
around at the muck and filth that consisted of Michael’s home.
Cobwebs adorned every crevice and mould was almost visibly crawling
up the walls.

“Yeah, so I
see. It looks... great.”

“Coffee?”

“Uh, no, I’m
fine thanks. I can’t drink coffee too late in the evening.”

“Oh, right.
Well I’m afraid I don’t really have anything else to offer you.
I’ve not been to the shops yet this week.”

Wendy hoped the
sigh of relief wasn’t made out loud.

“And the drugs?
Have you stopped the drugs?”

Michael made
his way through to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee.

“Course I have.
Been clean a few months now.”

Had it really
been that long since she had last seen Michael? It must have
been.

Out of the
corner of her eye, Wendy noticed something. A syringe containing a
small amount of brown liquid adorned the french dresser in the
living room. Even without her narcotics training, it was pretty
evident that the needle was used and had once held heroin.

Michael
returned with his coffee.

“A few months,
yeah? Then what’s this?”

“That? Oh,
that’s from a friend of mine. He’s not managed to kick the habit
yet. I really should stop him coming over, I know. It’s not a good
influence.”

Wendy may only
have seen Michael a handful of times in the previous few years, but
she still knew when he was lying.

“Tell me the
truth, Michael. This is yours, isn’t it?”

“It’s not as
easy as you think, Wend. I’m trying – I’m trying.”

“Trying?
Fucking trying? Dad would turn in his grave if he knew you were
pumping this shit into your arms. Or have you started on your legs
yet?”

“I’m trying! I
swear to God I’m trying! Do you have any idea how hard it is to
just stop after seven years? I’ve been doing this fucking shit for
seven years, Wend. It’s fucking powerful stuff and it’s not as easy
as that.”

“Don’t give me
that bullshit. You’re not even interested in trying! Even through
mum’s illness you carried on pumping that shit into yourself
without a care in the world.”

“It was the
only way I knew how to cope.”

“Cope?! Don’t
make me laugh! It was probably you and your fucking addiction that
finished her off!”

No sooner had
Wendy uttered those words than she had immediately regretted every
one of them.

“Wend, I called
you because I need you. I need help.”

“You’ve had my
help whenever you wanted it for the past seven years, but nothing’s
changed. Nothing will ever change. I’m through with you, Michael. I
don’t want anything to do with you.”

Whether through
anger or guilt, Wendy left Michael’s flat, slammed the door and
headed for her car.

As she coasted
through the streets of Mildenheath, Wendy played the conversation
over and over in her head. It was something she seemed to make a
habit of, although she wasn’t quite sure whether it was the mark of
a good police officer or a character trait that left her unable to
forgive and forget.

Stopping at the
traffic lights on Southold Street, Wendy noticed a pub, The
Cardinal, at the side of the road. Swinging her car round to the
left, she pulled into the car park and walked into the pub.

She perused the
drinks on offer – her eyes stopping at the bottle of whiskey
attached to the optic. She didn’t even like whiskey, but it had an
appeal.

“Whiskey,
please.”

“Heavy day, was
it?”

“You could say
that. Can you make it a double?”

The barman duly
obliged and collected the money from his new friend for the
evening. Despite being a town centre pub, The Cardinal never seemed
to get much passing trade. It once had a reputation as a rough pub,
and the exterior decor did it no favours in lifting said
reputation.

“Penny for
‘em.”

“You wouldn’t
want to know, trust me.”

“Copper, are
ya?”

“How’d you
know?”

“We get a lot
of them in here. Easy to spot, really.”

Wendy wondered
whether they ever got a lot of anything in here. She certainly saw
no reason for any of her colleagues to drink in this dive. Except
Culverhouse. She’d bet Culverhouse would love this place.

“It’s a long
story.”

“Try me.”

“OK. Yes, I’m a
copper. I’m attached to a murder case which is now a serial murder
case. There’s a nutter on the loose who’s chopping down prostitutes
at a rate of knots, and we’re miles from catching him because my
senior commanding officer is a clueless prick. For a brief respite,
I went to visit my idiot smack-head brother this evening only to
find out that he’s still an idiot and still a smack-head. How’s
that for starters?”

“Better than
most I hear, I’ll give you that. First I’ve heard of any serial
killer, though.”

“We’ve only
just found out ourselves. It’s due to hit the papers in the
morning. Call it a sneak preview.”

“I’m honoured.
You nowhere near catching the fellow then?”

“Not really.
There are still a few things to tie up.”

Wendy guffawed
at the terrible pun and realised she needed another whiskey.

The barman rang
the bell for no-one’s benefit but Wendy’s. Christ, it was
half-eleven. She didn’t know what time she’d arrived at The
Cardinal, but it was a good four whiskeys ago. With no other
option, Wendy said her goodbyes and left.

She didn’t
think twice about getting into her car and driving home – even
after her good four whiskeys. Any other night, she’d have walked or
got a taxi, but tonight she just didn’t care. In fact, the thought
rather amused her.

As she reversed
her Mazda out of the parking space, she realised she hadn’t
switched on her lights. As she fumbled to do so, she looked up and
into her rear-view mirror just in time to see the large BMW meet
the rear windscreen with an almighty bang.

Wendy got out
of her car and apologised profusely to the man in the BMW.

“Shit, I’m so
sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m
fine. Car’s a bit worse for wear, though. Christ knows how you
managed that – I wasn’t even moving!”

“I’m so sorry.
My mind was elsewhere and I just went onto autopilot.”

“It happens.
Just as long as you’re insured, mind!”

“Don’t worry
about that – I can go one better. I’m a police officer.”

“Well, saves me
a phone call! WPC, are you?”

“No, I’m
attached to the murder squad, actually. Wendy Knight. Pleased to
meet you.”

“Blimey, a real
professional woman. There’s a turn-up for the books. I’m Robert, by
the way. Robert Ludford.”

The man handed
Wendy his business card in a manner far too unsuitable for the
occasion.

Robert
Ludford ~ Chartered Accountant
.

“Blimey, a real
professional man. There’s a turn-up for the books.”

The pair
chuckled as they exchanged insurance details.

“Oh, and Wendy?
Be careful, won’t you? Whiskey and cars are never a good mix. You
wouldn't want to have to arrest yourself for drunk driving.”

CHAPTER
FIVE

Wendy staggered
into the incident room on Tuesday morning with the most horrendous
hangover. She was sure she had only had four whiskeys, but it felt
like forty. One of the many pleasures of getting old, she
concluded.

“Christ,
Knight. You look like the back end of a horse.”

Wendy admired
Culverhouse’s unique concept of a compliment.

“Thanks, guv.
You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“Heavy night,
was it?”

“No – I just
went to see my brother.”

“Didn’t realise
smack gave you a hangover.”

Wendy shot a
loathsome glance towards Culverhouse, who visibly stepped backward
and raised his hands, as if in defeat.

“Well, it’s
nice of you to join us, anyway. We’ve had Steve and Frank getting
to the bottom of the MOs and there are a number of matches.”