Too Close For Comfort (3 page)

Wendy was
willing to bet money that the only thing Detective Sergeants Steve
Wing and Frank Vine had been getting to the bottom of were a
succession of McDonald’s bags.

“Firstly, both
our victims were prostitutes. It might seem a little cliché, but I
think this is probably the route he’s going down. There’s no
evidence so far that the women knew each other – at least not from
what their families and friends have told us, but we’re sure it’s
the same guy who finished them both off.”

“What patterns
have we got?”

“Well, each of
the victims was found with a length of rope tied around their
necks. The rope used for each victim was different – Ella
Barrington’s was a manila hemp whilst Maria Preston’s was a blue
plastic sort of rope. The weirdest bit is the way they were tied.
Now, I’m no expert, but they weren’t your usual knots. Frank was in
the boy scouts when he was younger, and he reckons they were – what
did you say they were called, Frank?”

“Bowline knots,
guv. It’s pretty handy for nooses.”

A shiver ran
down Wendy’s spine as she quizzed DS Vine for more information.

“So we think
the victims had been hanged? Or just strangled?”

“Not hung, no.
There’s no sign of broken necks or any kind of blunt trauma from
the rope. You see, the bowline knot is often used for situations
where the knot will come under a lot of strain. It’s not the most
common one for your average serial killer to use; it's quite a
specialist knot, you see; mainly used by sailors and anyone who has
ever been in the boy scouts. The interesting thing is the amount of
mud that had been collected in the fibres of the ropes. It leads me
to think that he’d tied the rope around the girls’ necks and
dragged them to their final resting places.”

“Shit. Were
they alive at this point?”

“I’d say not.
For all its strengths, the bowline knot is very easy to untie.
Besides, the mud embedded in the ropes was too localised. If they’d
been kicking and screaming, much more of the rope would have come
into contact with the mud than we’re seeing here.”

“So how were
they killed?”

“The
throat-cutting, most likely. It seems as though the whole noose
idea was some sort of perverted game – they were already dead at
this point. There seems to be no traces of blood on the ground
where the bodies were found, except the parts that were in direct
contact with any wounds, of course.”

Just as Frank
had finished talking, Steve Wing turned up the volume on the
television. It was a local news report on the murders.

“ –
but the
Police have not said whether they believe the two girls were
connected in any way. What they have said, however, is that they
believe the killer may strike again and urge women in the area of
Mildenheath to take extra care when leaving their homes.”

As the camera
cut back to the studio, Culverhouse was distinctly unimpressed.

“Nice one,
Steve. Next time maybe you can let us see the other ninety-five
percent of it.”

The tense
atmosphere was cut short with a rap at the door of the incident
room.

“DCI
Culverhouse? I’m Patrick Sharp.”

“Sorry?”

“The
psychological profiler. I presume Commander Hawes told you I was
coming?”

“I’m afraid our
esteemed Commander has a habit of telling me fuck all, Mr Sharp. Do
come in.”

As Culverhouse
took a seat next to Wendy, Patrick Sharp perched himself on the
edge of Culverhouse’s desk and proceeded to address the team.

“It seems as
though we’ve got precious little time to waste, so I’ll get
straight into it. Despite immediate appearances, the personality of
the man we’re looking for is quite common amongst serial killers.
The fact that he seems to leave his victims in rather findable
places signals that he is trying to initiate a sort of game with
the police. He’s very methodical, too. The cuts to the throat and
the tying of the knots were remarkably neat, and the similarities
between the two murders are striking. He strikes me as a very
orderly man – obsessive, some might say. The peculiar knots point
to some military training, perhaps.”

Culverhouse had
the look of a grandmother being taught to suck eggs.

“However, the
information I have at this time is very brief. I believe SOCO
intend to provide me with some more information shortly, so I’ll
have more for you then.”

And with that,
Mr Sharp stood up and left the room.

“Well that was
a fucking waste of time,” said Culverhouse. “I could have told you
that myself.”

As the officers
returned to their respective desks, Wendy’s phone rang.

“DS
Knight?”

“Ah, Wendy.
Hello – it’s Robert, Robert Ludford.”

Wendy paused
whilst she tried to match a face to the name through
whiskey-clouded thoughts.

“From last
night? Surely you remember, Wendy.”

“Oh yes, sorry.
I’m still rather tired. How did you get my work number?”

“You gave me
your card.”

“I did? Sorry –
it’s all a bit of a blur. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s
more of a case of what I can do for you, actually. I was wondering
if you might like to come out for dinner one night. I know a
fantastic restaurant in Walverston.”

Whiskey-clouded
thoughts of the impending murder investigation and her argument
with Michael were not helping Wendy’s mood.

“No, I don’t
think that would be very appropriate. Sorry, Robert. Goodbye.”

No sooner than
Wendy had hung up the phone, it rang again.

“
What?
”

“Oh, hello. Is
that the incident room for the Mildenheath murders?”

“Yes, sorry.
Who am I speaking to?”

“My name’s Mrs
Connors – Alma Connors. I think I know who committed these terrible
killings. I think it was my son.”

CHAPTER
SIX

Alma Connors’
house smelt faintly of cats. As the sweet old lady guided Wendy and
Culverhouse into her living room, Wendy noted that her son must be
in his forties by now. Either that, or Alma Connors was a very late
starter.

“Can I get
either of you a cup of tea?”

Culverhouse
quickly surveyed the scene, noting the cat smell and the bird
droppings on the mantelpiece before curtly answering for both
himself and Wendy.

“No thank you,
Mrs Connors. That’s very kind of you.”

“Well, I
suppose I should get straight to the point, then.”

Culverhouse
wished very much that she would.

“As I mentioned
to DS Knight on the telephone, I believe my son may be the man you
are looking for in connection with the recent killings.”

“And what makes
you think that, Mrs Connors?”

“Call it a
mother’s intuition, if you will.”

At this, Wendy
cast her eyes towards Culverhouse – knowing exactly the look she
would find upon his face.

“Mrs Connors.
As much as it pains me to say it, intuition does not go down very
well as admissible evidence in court. Now, if your ‘intuition’ is
the only reason for calling me and DS Knight away from a very
important investigation, I would like to warn you that it could
very well be considered as wasting police time.”

“Oh no,
Inspector. There’s plenty of evidence, believe you me.”

Culverhouse had
a feeling that Alma Connors’ definition of ‘evidence’ may differ
slightly from his.

“You see – my
son, Thomas, or Tom, as he likes to be called, was dating a young
lady up until recently. Quite a nice, young lady – very polite.
However, it was quite clear that she wasn’t your usual
run-of-the-mill girlfriend.”

Culverhouse’s
patience was running thin.

“Go on, Mrs
Connors.”

“Well, she was
– you know – a lady of the night.”

“You mean a
prostitute?”

“Yes, if you
like. Now Thomas has never had many girlfriends, so I think it was
all rather convenient for him. He suffers from some social
difficulties, you see – Asperger’s Syndrome. I’m quite sure the
relationship never became sexual – not under my roof, anyway. He
used to buy her all sorts of nice gifts with the money he had saved
and I think he just quite liked having a young lady friend to feel
proud of.”

“And how does
this tie in with our investigation, Mrs Connors?”

“Well, if I
remember correctly, he stopped bringing this girl home a couple of
weeks ago now. I asked him what had happened and why she didn’t
come over anymore and he acted very evasive. He wouldn’t even
mention her name anymore, Inspector. To go from borderline
infatuation to complete ignorance in an instant struck me as rather
queer.”

“Rather queer
indeed, but I must ask you again, Mrs Connors – how does this tie
in with our investigation?”

“Well, I was
watching the news reports on the killings and they showed a picture
of each of the young girls. I’m almost certain that the second one
was Thomas’s young girlfriend – Maria Preston – I think that was
her name.”

“You
think
it was her name?”

“Well, yes.
That’s not what Thomas told me she was called – he said her name
was Lauren – but I suppose these ladies of the night must operate
under all sorts of false names and secret identities.” Alma Connors
seemed nervous and uneasy at the situation which presented her, yet
strangely keen to tell all.

“Yes, I suppose
so.”

“I really
didn’t want to have to do this, Inspector. It’s a terrible thing to
have to report your own son to the police, but after seeing what
happened to those young girls – well – I had no other choice.”

“And you’re
quite sure it’s Maria Preston that Tom was seeing?”

“Quite sure,
Inspector, yes.”

Culverhouse had
already opened his mouth to ask Alma Connors another question when
the living room door opened. A man in his late thirties entered the
room gingerly and rather nervously. Wendy supposed the man would
not look out of place at a comic book convention.

Alma Connors
looked rather shocked at the man’s sudden entrance.

“Inspector
Culverhouse, this is Thomas.”

“Inspector?”
Tom Connors asked nervously.

“Detective
Chief Inspector, actually. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant
Wendy Knight. Pleased to meet you, Tom.”

“Likewise.
What’s this all about?”

“We’d like to
ask you a few questions about a girl you might know – known to you
as Lauren, I believe.”

“What about
her?”

Culverhouse,
not wanting to alarm Tom Connors, chose his words very
carefully.

“We believe she
may have been involved in accident.”

“I don’t have
anything to say about her.”

“It’s not quite
as simple as that, Tom. This is a criminal investigation and if we
believe you may have some information which could help us, then we
do need to talk to you.”

“I told you – I
don’t have anything to say about her.”

“Tom – if it
turns out that you did know this woman then you don’t have much
choice. We’d like to you accompany us to the police station so we
can have a little chat.”

As they left
Alma Connors’ house, Wendy gasped at the fresh, cat-free air that
flowed outside. She couldn’t have been more pleased that
Culverhouse had decided to conduct the questioning at the station.
Tom, clearly uneasy and well out of his comfort zone, put up quite
a resistance to Culverhouse's insistence that the conversation be
continued elsewhere. A quick, sharp jab to the ribs (thankfully
unnoticed by Wendy or Alma Connors) soon sorted that out.

As the unmarked
Vauxhall pulled away from the house, Wendy’s mobile phone rang. The
conversation was brief.

“That was
Mildenheath Hospital. Drop me at the station and I’ll drive over
there. My brother’s been taken ill.”

“Ill?”

“Drugs
overdose, they reckon. They’ve asked me to come in right away.”

CHAPTER
SEVEN

As Wendy drove
through the congested town centre of Mildenheath between the police
station and the hospital, a torrent of mixed feelings flowed
through her.

Although one
part of her felt no sympathy for Michael – she despised drug
abusers – she could not help but remember that he was her brother
after all.

Wendy sat
waiting in the right-hand lane at the traffic lights in the town
centre and could sense the driver of the next car staring at her.
Unable to ignore the feeling, she glanced to her left. The man
looked dishevelled, yet mysteriously wise. Even at this distance
she could see the piercing blue eyes of his expressionless, yet
all-knowing, face.

She tried to
imagine the state Michael must be in. She envisaged wires and tubes
coming out of his mouth – a machine beeping at his bedside. The
pang of guilt was unbearable as she recalled their argument the
previous night. Had it made Michael take an overdose? Had she
caused this?

Wendy glanced
back towards the car next to her. He was looking at her again. As a
child, Wendy often wondered if people in the street could read her
thoughts or somehow know what she was thinking. As she sat in her
car, those thoughts came flooding back. Did he know something?

The whys and
hows of Michael’s condition seemed somewhat irrelevant. Since her
mother had died, she was the only person Michael had. The
realisation didn’t make her feel any better about the fact that she
had barely seen him since.

Despite the
green light, the traffic was not moving. An accident further up the
road, Wendy presumed.

As she rolled
her head back onto the headrest, Wendy closed her eyes. She
recalled better days with Michael – both were young children,
playing happily in the back garden of their family home. As she sat
at the top of the wooden slide, she could feel her father’s large,
strong hands on her sides. He let go, and she slid down the slide
onto the lawn. The slide had once been varnished but was now
beginning to splinter.