Too Close For Comfort (8 page)

“No, I'd like
to know why you switched the TV off.”

“I told you. I
didn't think you'd want to concentrate on work stuff outside of the
office. Besides, I don't like hearing about serial killings. It
gives me the creeps.”

“You seemed
quite interested earlier.”

“Well, just
taking a friendly interest, you know.”

The silence
hung over the pair for a good two or three minutes before Robert,
seemingly continuing a train of thought out loud, broke the
deadlock.

“I read a book
about something similar once. Turned out the father of the first
victim had been the killer and had got such a buzz out of it that
he just carried on killing women that reminded him of his daughter.
Well, I'm just saying that it's not a massive leap of faith to have
it work the other way round.”

“It's unlikely
that Mr Bryant will have killed two random prostitutes and popped
off his daughter as a
piece de resistance
, don't you think?
I think you've been reading too many books.”

“I see. Well,
yes, I do read quite a lot. Quite a varied range of interests, I'm
afraid, so I tend to buy a lot of books on various subjects.”

Wendy scanned
the bookcase and her eyes rested on a section of eight or nine
books on knots.

“You have a lot
of books about knots.”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes.
I... I was in the boy scouts. Sort of a long-running interest of
mine. Never know when you might need to tie a proper knot.”

“Yes, I suppose
there's a lot of call for them in accountancy practices in
Mildenheath.”

“Well, not
exactly, no. But I am quite keen on camping. I tend to refer to
them for that.”

“You're going
camping in February?”

“No, why?”

“You've got two
books on camping knots open on your coffee table. I just wondered
why you were referring to them in the middle of February.”

“Oh, I just
wanted to check something. A friend asked me to find something out
about bowline knots for him.”

“Oh right. I
see.”

The words of
Steve Wing and Frank Vine echoed through Wendy's head.

...each of the
victims was found with a length of rope tied around their
necks...they weren’t your usual knots...Bowline knots... pretty
handy for nooses...

A shiver ran
down Wendy's spine. Did she believe in coincidences? At this moment
she wasn't entirely sure. She made her excuses and left.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

There was no
easy way to approach the situation. Wendy was torn between her
loyalty to the intuition she knew she had – and which had never
failed her – and the overwhelming evidence before her.

“DS Knight,
will you get to the sodding point? What does a saucy date with some
tart accountant have to do with my bloody murder
investigation?”

“I think there
might be a link somewhere, guv.”

“Well I'd be a
very happy bunny if you'd cut the crap and tell me what it is.”

“This might
sound a bit weird.”

“From what
you've told me so far, I've had more sensible dreams after seven
pints of lager and a chicken vindaloo.”

“I wouldn't
bring it up if I didn't think it was important, guv. At first I
didn't really notice anything. It's only in retrospect that things
seem a little odd. Robert's been quite keen to find out more about
the case every time we've met. I thought it was just natural
curiosity at first but now I'm not so sure. He keeps asking about
details, as if he's trying to find out how much we know. Then last
night I was in his flat and I noticed he had a few books on knots
in his bookcase. He said he had been a member of the boy
scouts.”

“Ah, well,
that's it then. Got him hook, line and sinker. I'll get DS Wing on
the blues-and-twos down to the local scout hut to nick the lot of
them. Perhaps we can do 'em for singing ging-gang-sodding-goolie in
a public place. What in the name if
bloody hell
are you
trying to say, Knight?”

“Guv, please
give me a chance to explain. There were two books open on the
coffee table. They were both open on pages about bowline
knots.”

“Bowline
knots?”

“Yes. The knot
used to tie the ligatures in all three of the killings.”

“I see. Well,
as you said – he's taking an interest. He probably looked it up to
find out more about it after you told him about it.”

“Guv, I never
mentioned bowline knots to Robert. Or anyone, for that matter.
Hell, I haven't even mentioned rope or strangulation!”

“Have we put
anything out to the papers about it?”

“No, you told
us not to mention anything related to the killing methods for fear
of copycat killings.”

“I see. So
there's no way this Ludford fellow could know that the murders were
committed with this particular type of knot?”

“Well, so far
as I can see there is only one way.”

“We can't jump
to conclusions, Knight, but it's certainly a strong lead. Tell me –
how did you meet Ludford?”

“He approached
me outside a pub.”

“He approached
you?”

“Yes.” She
deigned not to tell Culverhouse that she had reversed into
Ludford's car after a skinful of whisky.

“Right. This is
all sounding a bit suss to me. I want you to keep seeing Ludford.
Get more involved with him. This could be a vital way of obtaining
information and closing the net in on him.”

“You think it's
him?”

“I've no idea,
but it's strong enough to look into.”

“And you want
me to get more involved? With a potential serial killer?”

“No, Knight, I
want you to break off all contact, obtain no more information and
leave him free to kill a load more girls. What do you bloody well
think?”

“Well, when you
put it like that...”

“Good. I want
regular reports immediately after each meeting. I want everything
recorded on tape. We'll get you fitted with a recording
device.”

“Are you sure
the Commander will authorise that, guv?”

Culverhouse
pulled a miniature clip-on microphone and hand-held digital
recording unit from his desk drawer and placed it in front of
Wendy.

“Sod the
Commander. Consider it authorised.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Wendy's head
pounded as she tried to comprehend the situation. Over dinner that
night her taste for red wine returned as, somehow, she and Michael
managed to demolish two bottles.

“Did you find
anything odd about Robert, Michael?”

“Odd? No, why?
You gone off him already?”

“Not exactly,
no. I just have one or two concerns.”

“About what?
Don't tell me. He wears Y-fronts. Farts in bed? Picks his
nose?”

“No, nothing
like that. I'm worried that... Oh, don't worry. It's silly.”

“Come on, Wend.
If you can't confide in me, who can you confide in?”

“You have to
promise that you won't tell a single soul, Michael. I mean it. I
could lose my job over it.”

“Your job? Wow,
you think Robert is involved with some sort of illegal activity?
Got to watch those accountants, you know!”

“It's not
funny, Michael. Listen. Those three girls were all killed in a very
particular way. They were strangled with ropes. Not the same rope
each time, but the same very specific knot. It's known as a bowline
knot. It sounds stupid saying it now but Robert has a number of
books on knots and I found two of them open on pages about bowline
knots when I was at his house last night. He claimed it was
something to do with a favour for a friend but I don't know. Now I
think about it, he's been taking a very keen interest in the case
and has been asking a lot of odd questions. I don't know why, but
something doesn't quite seem right.”

“And you think
he could be the killer?”

“I don't want
to think that.”

“But you
do?”

“Oh, I don't
know what I think right now. All I know is that I'm in a very
sticky situation to say the least.”

Later that
night, as Wendy tried to drift off to sleep, recurring visions kept
flashing in front of her eyes. First the face of Ella Barrington,
then Robert's books. Then Maria Preston, then the books. Then
Nicole Bryant. Then the books. How could she have been so foolish?
I should have spotted the signs earlier
, she surmised.
Some detective.
Her heart juddered as a sudden thought
entered her mind. What if Ludford had intended her to be the next
victim? What if that was
still
his intention? What if he was
completely mad? How could Culverhouse insist that she carry on
seeing a potential serial killer? Was
he
mad? Or was
she
mad for thinking that a completely innocent man – the
first man she'd let get close to her in years – was a serial
killer? As she tried to comprehend her thoughts, the phone
rang.

“Yes?”

“Culverhouse
here. Listen, Knight. We've got a bit of a problem on our hands
now. There's been a fourth victim.”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

The lack of
sleep didn't help Wendy one iota as she walked into the incident
room to meet with Culverhouse in the light of the latest
killing.

“Sorry, Knight.
Unfortunately people aren't considerate enough to wait until
daylight to get murdered.”

“Is it
fresh?”

“No, she was
killed the night before last. The pathologist reckons it was
between seven in the evening and three in the morning.”

“Do we have a
positive ID?”

“We do. Another
easy one. It's starting to look like the killer
wants
these
girls to be identified but I can't figure out for the life of me
why. Grace Norris, an eighteen-year-old college student. A devout
Catholic and local church volunteer. On the plus side: another
Bible basher off our streets. On the other hand: bang goes my
prossie theory.”

“So you're
finally accepting that Nicole Bryant wasn't a prostitute?”

“No, I'm
accepting that Grace Norris wasn't a prostitute.”

Wendy sighed
and shook her head. “Definitely the same M.O.?”

“Without a
shadow of a doubt. Absolutely identical.”

“So what the
hell
does
link these women?”

“If I knew
that, Knight, I wouldn't be farting about here at three o'clock in
the bastard morning. I'd be tucked up in my jim-jams with a mug of
Horlicks.”

Tell me
about it
, she wanted to say.

“Oh, but SOCO
said there was one slight deviation from the M.O.”

“Right. So not
absolutely identical after all?”

“Oh no – it was
absolutely identical alright. But this time he raped her.”

“
Raped
her? He's not raped them before.”

“I know that,
Knight. Hence the slight deviation.”

“But why
now?”

“It looks as
though he's stepping up his game. We've got some sort of cat and
mouse game on our hands.”

“Did SOCO say
whether intercourse occurred pre- or post-mortem?”

“If you mean
did the bastard shag her when she was dead, we don't know yet.
We're still waiting for forensics to get their turkey basters
out.”

They examined
the profiles of each victim, one by one. Their photographs were
laid out on the table in front of them, a joyful family photo
juxtaposed with the anguished death mask of each woman. Each letter
of each of their names struck fear and anger into Wendy's gut.

ELLA
BARRINGTON

MARIA
PRESTON

NICOLE
BRYANT

GRACE
NORRIS

So their names
were getting shorter. Ella Barrington: fourteen letters. Maria
Preston: twelve letters. Nicole Bryant: twelve letters. Grace
Norris: eleven letters. Would the next victim's name have ten
letters in it? Would he finally stop killing once he'd found
someone with a two-letter name? Wendy told herself this was a
ridiculous theory and cursed her lack of sleep.

As the minutes
and hours ticked by, conversation returned to Robert Ludford.

“Guv, I'm
really not sure about this whole idea of getting involved with him.
If he really is the murderer, he's stepped up his game big time
with this one. I really don't think it's safe.”

“What other
option do we have, Knight? We can't barge in and arrest him or
search his house because the only evidence we have on him is that
he once read a book on a similar type of knot that was used in the
murders. Even that is circumstantial, but not circumstantial enough
to be ignored. No, we can't do anything else but watch and observe
Ludford. Conventional surveillance would be useless – especially as
you and he are already close and he seems to want to confide in you
and speak to you about the case.”

“What if he's
just after information?”

“Then we'll
feed him red herrings. We'll soon find out if he's linked,
then.”

“I don't know,
guv. I still don't feel safe.”

“You're a
bastard police officer, Knight. You're not meant to feel safe. Case
closed.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

It was Tuesday
evening when Wendy finally summoned up the courage to visit
Ludford's flat. The recording equipment tucked safely in her bag,
the microphone clipped snugly inside the flap, she pressed the
doorbell and waited for him to come to the door.

When he did, he
seemed to immediately register Wendy's unease.

“Everything OK,
sweetheart?”

“Yes, sorry.
Absolutely fine. Stressful day at work.”

“Ah, the
murders?”

“Yes. There's
been another victim.”

“Oh?”

“But I can't
really talk about it. Can I come in? It's freezing out here.”