Leigh Russell Collection - Books 1-3 in the bestselling DI Geraldine Steel series E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The DI Geraldine Steel Series Boxset
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 1370

Beschreibung

The first three thrillers featuring DI Geraldine Steel brought together in one digital edition!...⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'I really enjoy this author, once you start reading you can't put down' Amazon customer⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐'The Geraldine Steel series just gets better and better' Nigel⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Leigh always writes books I get lost in and the Geraldine Steel series is just fabulous!' Beyond The BooksCUT SHORTWhen DI Geraldine Steel relocates to the quiet rural town of Woolsmarsh, she expects to find her new home to be somewhere where nothing much ever happens; a space where she can battle her demons in private. But when she finds herself pitted against a twisted killer preying on local young women she quickly discovers how wrong she is...ROAD CLOSEDA man dies in a gas explosion and the police suspect arson. The Murder Investigation Team are called in.The case takes on a new and terrible twist when a local villain is viciously attacked. As the police enquiries lead from the expensive Harchester Hill estate to the local brothel, a witness dies in a hit-and-run. Was it coincidence - or cold-blooded murder?DEAD ENDHeadmistress Abigail Kirby is found dead with her tongue cut out. A potential witness has been murdered. And for DI Geraldine Steel, the stakes have been raised higher. Abigail's teenage daughter, Lucy, is missing, believed to have run away with a girl she met online.With a serial killer on the loose, Geraldine's own life is in danger, and a shocking discovery, could mean it's too late to save her?⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Really enjoy this author once you start reading you can't put the book down' Amazon customer⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐'The Geraldine Steel series just gets better and better' Nigel⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Leigh always writes books I get lost in and the Geraldine Steel series is just fabulous!' Beyond The Books

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Details can be found at the end of this boxed set

This is an omnibus edition of the first three Geraldine Steel novels

– THE EARLY CASES OMNIBUS –

by bestselling author Leigh Russell

Cut Short

Road Closed

Dead End

Contents

Critical Acclaim for Leigh Russell

Gloosary of Acronyms

Dedication

Cut Short

PART 1

1: Goodbye

2: Sophie

3: Move

4: Team

5: Gerta

6: Café

7: Johnny

8: Chips

9: Honda

10: Mortuary

11: Neighbours

12: Pub

PART 2

13: Home

14: Facts

15: Suspect

16: Terry

17: Secret

18: Media

19: Review

20: Melanie

21: Lakeland

22: Celia

23: Newspaper

PART 3

24: Meeting

25: Women

26: Row

27: Witness

28: Name

29: Gardeners

30: Carer

31: Mellor

32: Rogers

33: Reporter

34: Garage

35: Departure

PART 4

36: Party

37: Alone

38: Mermaid

39: Missing

40: Return

41: Lake

42: Protest

43: Exclusive

44: Body

45: Interview

46: Car

47: Monday

48: Ramsden

49: Attention

PART 5

50: Boyfriend

51: Room

52: Records

53: Contacts

54: Information

55: Patience

56: Hideout

57: Home

58: Brothers

59: Escape

60: Hair

61: Girl

62: Alarm

63: Vigil

64: Interview

65: Celebration

Road Closed

PART 1

1: Intruders

2: Funeral

3: Sophie

4: Dubrovnik

5: Market

6: Brenda

7: Second Attempt

8: Night

9: Summons

10: DCI

11: Mortuary

12: Widow

13: Interviews

14: Plan

15: Hangover

PART 2

16: Security

17: Market Trader

18: Pretence

19: Papers

20: Candle Sticks

21: Mother-In-Law

22: Son

23: Glass Cutter

24: Alibi

25: Witness

26: Suspect

27: News

28: Recognition

29: Bronxy

30: Careless Talk

31: Disappointment

PART 3

32: Update

33: Shock

34: Saturday Night

35: Attack

36: Passerby

37: Briefing

38: Ray

39: Victims

40: Curry House

41: Visitor

42: Supper

43: Fire

PART 4

44: Arson

45: Hotel

46: Sandmouth

47: Panic

48: Hit And Run

49: Body

50: Scene Of Crime

51: Gossip

52: Injured

53: Car

54: Hospital

PART 5

55: Lagoon

56: Excelsior

57: Suspicion

58: Moving On

59: Danger

60: Home

61: Arrest

62: Realisation

63: Candles

64: Life

65: Friends

Dead End

PART 1

1: Abigail

2: Waiting

3: Discovery

4: Team

5: Scene of Crime

6: Surfing

7: Morgue

8: Family

9: Shock

10: Briefing

11: Interviews

12: Waste

13: Mistress

14: Zoe

PART 2

15: Vernon

16: Matthew

17: Arrangements

18: Ben

19: Witness

20: Hannah

21: Agency

22: Charlotte

23: Whitewash

24: Drink

25: Evie

26: Stalker

PART 3

27: Marriage

28: Trust

29: Alarm

30: Date

31: Hallowe’en

32: Missing

33: School

34: Neighbours

35: Carol

36: Release

37: Talk

38: Agreement

39: Interest

40: Visitor

41: Clean Up

PART 4

42: Guy

43: Grief

44: Corpse

45: Store

46: Impatience

47: Identification

48: Argument

49: Secrets

50: Dissatisfaction

51: Leaving

PART 5

52: Daughter

53: Panic

54: Name

55: Concealment

56: Justice

57: Escape

58: Whitstable

59: School

60: Café

61: Arrest

62: Regret

63: Proposal

64: Journey

65: The Truth

66: Cellar

67: Moving on

68: Change

A Letter from Leigh

Author Biography

Continue Reading

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Critical Acclaim for Leigh Russell

‘Taut and compelling’– Peter James

‘Unmissable’– Lee Child

‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’– Jeffery Deaver

‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural’– Times

‘Smoothly professional fare from the always-consistent Russell’– CrimeTime

Glossary of acronyms

DCI

-   

Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI

-

Detective Inspector

DS

-

Detective Sergeant

DC

-

Detective Constable

PC

-

Police Constable (in uniform)

SIO

-

Senior Investigating Officer (here the DCI)

SOCO   

-

Scene of Crime Officers (collect forensic evidence at scene)

PM

-

Post-Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

MO

-

Medical Officer

CCTV

-

Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

GCSE

-

General Certificate of Secondary Education (high school examinations)

Dedicated to Michael, Jo and Phill

CUT SHORT

A DI GERALDINE STEEL MYSTERY

LEIGH RUSSELL

THE CRIME & MYSTERY CLUB LTD

‘Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.’

F. Scott Fitzgerald

PART 1

‘pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness’

E. E. Cummings

1

Goodbye

He scrabbled at brittle leaves with clumsy gloved fingers then, crouching low, wriggled through the bushes. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching before he trudged away along the path. He’d been clever, careful to leave no clues. No one would find her in the park. It was his secret, his and hers, and she wouldn’t tell. He had no idea who she was, and that was clever too. It meant she didn’t know who he was.

He hadn’t chosen her because she was pretty. He hadn’t chosen her at all. She was just there. But she was pretty and he liked that. No woman had looked at him since school; she had stared into his eyes. She only said one word, ‘No!’ but she was speaking to him and he knew this was intimacy, just the two of them. It was a pity he wouldn’t see her again, but there would be others. It was raining hard. He sang softly, because you never knew who was listening.

‘Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven, like the first dew fall, on the first grass, praise for the sweetness of the wet garden ...’

The rain would wash her clean.

He faltered as he rounded a bend in the path because a woman was walking towards him. Then he saw she was older, and she wasn’t pretty like the woman he’d hidden under autumn leaves. She asked him about a music shop called Bretts. He didn’t know what to say so he walked quickly past. He wasn’t allowed to talk to her.

‘Never talk to strangers,’ Miss Elsie said. The park was a dangerous place and he knew he shouldn’t trust people who offered him sweets. He must never get in the car if they offered to take him home, not even if they called his name. The world was full of sin. The woman watched him hurry past. He was frightened.

‘Don’t worry,’ Miss Elsie said. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you.’ He walked more quickly and he didn’t look back.

2

Sophie

A shrill scream pierced the air. Judi gazed helplessly at her daughter. Sophie’s fair curls shook furiously, her angelic face twisted in rage.

‘Won’t!’ Sophie shrieked. She stamped her foot, ran to the table and flung her plastic bowl to the floor. Coco Pops and rusty milk splashed onto the Amtico tiles. Judi lunged forward, gripped Sophie’s little forearm and slapped her hand. The child was shocked into silence before she crumpled. It took Judi nearly an hour to pacify her. No sooner had harmony been restored than the doorbell rang and Judi remembered she’d invited her neighbour round with her small son. She opened the door and saw Alice with two children in tow.

‘Sorry,’ Alice said. ‘I completely forgot I promised to look after Jamie’s friend. We can leave it for today, if you like.’ Before Judi could reply, Sophie ran forward squealing with glee.

‘Jamie! Jamie!’

Judi smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. Come in. It’s fine. Gerta can take them all to the park.’

Judi and Alice settled down with coffee and slivers of cake while the three children trotted busily along the pavement behind Gerta.

‘We’re going to the park,’ Jamie crooned and Otto repeated the words in a singsong chant.

The children’s playground was on the far side of Lyceum Park. Gerta hoped she might see the fit young gardener who sometimes worked there and smiled as she passed through the open gateway. Her eyes flicked round eagerly, but the park was deserted. It was ordinary enough, a typical urban park with scrubby grassland, and a lake boasting a halfhearted jet of water that could hardly be called a fountain. A few ducks pottered at the edge of the scummy surface alongside fat pigeons. They rounded a bend in the narrow asphalt path and saw the playground to their right, its ground covered in tree bark. As they approached the central bank of overgrown trees and shrubs on their left, the two boys raced past Gerta into the children’s area. Sophie scurried fretfully at their heels.

Sophie always played with Jamie. They were best friends. They played on the slide in the park. Not the baby slide. They played on the big big slide. Mummy said they played nicely together. But Jamie was playing with Otto. Sophie wanted to push him off the slide, only Gerta was on the bench watching them. Gerta needed to go away so Sophie could push Otto off the slide and play with Jamie. She and Jamie took turns nicely on the big slide. Mummy said so. Mummy liked Jamie. Mummy didn’t like Otto. Otto was horrid.

‘Make Otto go away,’ she wailed, but Gerta shook her head and told Sophie not to be silly. Sophie wasn’t silly. Gerta was silly, and Otto was silly. Sophie didn’t care. She’d go away and hide and they wouldn’t be able to find her. Mummy would give Gerta a big smack and make Gerta cry.

Sophie flew with fairy wings across the path and into the magic trees. The leaves were red and yellow and brown and green. It was a good place to hide. She watched a hungry caterpillar crawling down a tree. It took a long time but no one came to find her. She picked up a stick and poked the leaves. Mummy never let her play with sticks but Mummy wasn’t there.

‘Sophie!’ she heard Gerta’s voice, rising with panic, and giggled.

‘Sophie!’ Jamie called.

‘Thophie!’ Otto echoed.

‘Go away, Otto,’ Sophie whispered. She was so quiet, no one heard her. Sophie wriggled further into the bushes. It was damp and scratchy. She saw a beetle scurrying along the ground and poked it with her stick. A bee buzzed by her ear. There was a hand in the leaves. She poked it and a cloud of nasty insects flew up. Sophie took no notice of them. She’d seen something worse, hiding in the leaves. The wicked witch was lying in the mud, staring up at her. Sophie didn’t like it there any more. She wanted mummy.

‘Mummy!’ she yelled. She heard scrabbling in the bushes and saw Gerta peering down. Gerta looked like the dog with saucer eyes. Her mouth gaped wide open and she started to scream.

Sophie covered her ears. She didn’t want the wicked witch to wake up. ‘Go away, Gerta!’ She wanted mummy. She wanted to go home.

3

Move

Flushed with excitement, Geraldine clutched the key. The sharp metal dug into her flesh. After months of anxious waiting she was finally taking possession of her new home. She suppressed an impulse to shout, ‘Yippee!’ The estate agent was watching her. She smiled while, inside her head, laughter bubbled.

‘You’re new to the area, aren’t you?’ the estate agent asked and she nodded, conscious of his bold eyes. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Work,’ she replied.

‘It’s a very nice flat,’ he remarked. ‘What did you say you do?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Maybe I’ll find out,’ he smiled. Geraldine wasn’t sure if he was flirting and felt like an awkward teenager. He obviously hadn’t seen her details, as he didn’t know she was a detective inspector. Accustomed to knowing about other people’s lives, she felt unsettled. She hadn’t even learned his name, and he was familiar with the interior of her bedroom.

The estate agent seized her hand in a warm, firm grip, congratulated her once more on her purchase and turned to leave.

‘Is it a good time to buy?’ As soon as she spoke Geraldine was afraid he’d see through her clumsy ploy but it worked. He spun round to face her.

‘Property prices have been rising in the UK for fifteen years.’

‘Will the trend continue, do you think?’ She was tempted to invite him in for coffee, but she didn’t have any milk.

‘There are a lot of people saying the bubble’s going to burst some time in the next two years.’

‘What do you think’s going to happen to property prices?’

‘If I could predict the future of the housing market, I wouldn’t still be working for a living.’ He hesitated before scribbling on a business card. ‘Here’s my mobile number. Why don’t you call me when you’ve settled in?’ She reached out and took the card. ‘I don’t usually meet women like this,’ he added, suddenly intense. Then he turned and walked away. Geraldine lingered in the doorway, watching his confident stride. She tried not to think about Mark.

It never occurred to Geraldine that Mark might leave her, until the evening she’d come home to find him in the hall surrounded by suitcases. Gazing past her, Mark announced that he was moving out.

‘After six years,’ was all Geraldine managed to say.

‘We both know this isn’t going anywhere.’

‘This?’ she echoed stupidly.

‘Us. Our relationship. We’ve been taking each other for granted for too long. I hardly see you any more. You’re always working. It’s time we both moved on.’

Geraldine wanted to protest, to promise she’d change. She tried to speak but the words stuck in her throat. Mark had packed all his belongings. His silver letter opener had gone from the hall table. His coat wasn’t on its hook. It went through her head that soon there’d be no trace of him in the flat apart from the rubbish he’d thrown in the bin, and the smell of him on her sheets. When that faded, she’d be left with nothing. They faced one another across the draughty hall.

‘Where will you go?’

Suddenly brisk, Mark seized hold of a case. His eyes were fixed on a point just above her left shoulder. ‘I’m moving in with a friend.’

‘A friend?’ she repeated, the word suddenly threatening. ‘What friend?’

Mark hesitated then spoke gently. His features softened. ‘Her name’s Sue.’ Geraldine clenched her fists until she felt her nails bite into the soft pads of her palms. Mark’s face grew taut again. ‘I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff tomorrow,’ he called out as he lugged his large suitcase through the front door. It closed behind him with a hollow clunk. Alone, Geraldine clutched the edge of the bare table and howled.

‘He’s not worth crying about. He’s a lying toad. Forget about him, he’s not worth it,’ her sister raged on the phone later that evening.

Geraldine had been planning to spend the rest of her life with the lying toad. ‘What am I going to do?’ she wept.

‘Forget about him,’ her sister repeated. It didn’t help.

Mark had always claimed he didn’t believe in marriage. That was another lie. He just hadn’t wanted to marry Geraldine. When she heard he was engaged, less than a year after walking out on her, she was consumed by an anger that left no room for self-pity.

‘You’ll meet someone else,’ her sister assured her. Geraldine nodded, privately determined that she would never be emotionally vulnerable again. There was more to life than the future Mark had snatched away from her. He’d blamed her career for the failure of their relationship, but her job wasn’t going to walk out on her. She managed to convince herself that she was happy to be single, devoted to her work.

Situated in a pleasant tree-lined avenue, her new flat suited Geraldine well, offering a haven from the stresses of her work on a mobile Murder Investigation Team based in the South East. As soon as she could, she took a few days off to paint her living room. Restful cream walls and beige carpet gave an illusion of space, enhanced by a large mirror above her small fireplace. She threw a critical look at her reflection. Dark eyes stared steadily back at her.

Once she’d finished decorating, she settled down to finish unpacking. Absorbed in boxes, she almost missed the doorbell. She ran to the entryphone. On a little shelf above the handset she saw a card: CRAIG HUDSON, RESIDENTIAL SALES CONSULTANT. Her glance lingered on the name.

‘Washing machine,’ a voice crackled over the entryphone.

‘Come on in.’ Geraldine pressed the buzzer for the gates. A few moments later her doorbell rang and she opened the door to a lanky man, his hair damp and his shoulders flecked with rain.

‘Miss Steel?’ She nodded and he consulted his paperwork. ‘Your washer dryer,’ he read aloud.

‘Come in.’ The man loped after her into the kitchen and sized up the space.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, nodding his head. ‘It’ll fit.’ He glanced hopefully at the kettle. ‘It’s a nasty day out there.’

Geraldine was keen to return to her unpacking. ‘Can you bring it in, please?’

The delivery man sighed and walked slowly out, his large feet dragging at the fluff on her new carpet.

The two delivery men shuffled up the path in the drizzling rain.

‘This way,’ Geraldine said. Her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the second man and sensed that he recognised her. Standing aside, she scoured her memory to recall if she’d ever seen him before. She tried to picture him with a bald head or long straggly hair, instead of a grubby grey cap pulled low on his forehead.

Geraldine avoided meeting his eye again as, grunting and nodding at one another, the two men manoeuvred the washing machine into the kitchen. She didn’t put the kettle on while they plumbed it in. She wanted the delivery men gone from her flat as quickly as possible, so she could have the place to herself again, and was relieved when the front door closed behind them. She cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, wiping away all trace of the dirty wet marks they’d left on her floor.

Her housework done, she poured herself a mug of coffee and settled down once more beside a large pile of boxes. As she was ripping brown parcel tape off a box with a satisfying whoosh, her work phone rang.

4

Team

An Incident Room was being set up as Geraldine arrived at the police station. Woolsmarsh was a small town around half an hour’s drive from her new flat, which meant she’d be able to stay at home instead of having to find accommodation locally. There was a buzz of activity as she walked in and she had to step aside smartly as two computers were carried past her along a narrow corridor. A harassed officer with a clipboard approached her as she hovered in the doorway.

‘Hi, I’m Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel, MIT,’ she said brightly.

‘DS Peterson is on the Murder Investigation Team. He’ll fill you in,’ the other woman said, nodding with relief as a young officer came into view, hurrying purposefully along the corridor towards them. He wore a navy suit, crisp white shirt and sober striped tie, like a graduate dressed up for his first grown up job interview. His vigorous enthusiasm contrasted with Geraldine’s first impression of the police station, thrown into disarray by the arrival of the Murder Investigation Team. The DS paused in his stride and smiled. A little over six foot, he was heavily built with huge shoulders. He looked as though he worked out. Geraldine liked him at once. She held out her hand, which was immediately seized in a strong grip.

‘Ian Peterson, Detective Sergeant,’ he said. Something about the eager way he announced himself suggested that he’d only recently been promoted.

‘DI Geraldine Steel. What’s going on?’ As they watched a desk being manoeuvred into the Incident Room, Peterson told her they were there to investigate the murder of a local girl. That was all he knew. He shrugged apologetically as though he ought to know all the details of the case.

‘That’s more than I knew until you told me,’ Geraldine fibbed and he smiled with relief, his blue eyes candid and friendly. They entered the Incident Room where a briefing was about to begin.

Desks for the three inspectors attached to the case had been set up in one corner, there being no accommodation in the small station for them to have their own offices. The room was packed and people were still arriving, milling about in the cramped space. As she made her way over to the inspectors’ corner Geraldine recognised Ted Carter, a grey haired man with classic good looks who’d been her mentor during her year as acting DI when she’d been completing her training for the rank. He’d always treated her with gentle courtesy and she was pleased to see his familiar leathery face as she made her way over to the corner. Carter nodded and stood up to greet her, his long legs wedged awkwardly behind his desk.

‘Small world,’ she grinned. His brown eyes wrinkled in an answering smile.

Carter half turned and introduced the other DI on the case. ‘This is Tom Merton, Geraldine Steel.’ They shook hands. Merton’s grip felt chilly after the young sergeant’s energetic handshake. Soft wisps of ginger hair hovered like improbable candyfloss around his unpleasantly flushed pink face. Unlike Carter, Merton didn’t return her smile as he enquired in a reedy drawl if she knew DCI Gordon. Geraldine shook her head. The other two inspectors on the case had both worked with the detective chief inspector before, and she hoped she wouldn’t be at a disadvantage as the new girl on the team.

‘The name sounds familiar,’ she said uncertainly. With a nod, Merton retired behind his desk. Geraldine had the impression Carter was about to say something else, when a hush fell over the room.

‘Speak to you later,’ Carter whispered, ‘DCI’s here.’

Geraldine made her way over to her own desk. She thought she caught Merton giving Carter a malevolent look as she turned to face the woman standing beside the Incident Board.

A jacket hung loosely on Kathryn Gordon’s spare frame. Pale skin stretched tightly across her face but hung slack beneath her chin, and her eyes burned with determination. She wore no make up and her greying hair was cut in a severe bob along her jaw line. Her pallor contrasted with two red blotches on her cheeks, giving her a clown-like look, but there was nothing cheerful about her expression. Geraldine glanced round the room. All eyes were fixed on Kathryn Gordon.

‘Now that I have everyone’s attention,’ the DCI said, ‘let’s begin. I’m your Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Kathryn Gordon.’ She didn’t speak again immediately. Instead, she turned to the Incident Board to look at a bruised face staring blankly into the room.

‘We’re here to find out who murdered this young woman yesterday. So far, her killer’s not giving anything away.’ Kathryn Gordon tapped at the photo with a rapid flick of her wrist and turned back to look round at the expectant team. On the periphery of her vision Geraldine was aware of officers straightening up and pulling their shoulders back. ‘Her name’s Angela Waters,’ Kathryn Gordon went on. Apart from the rasp of her voice, the room was completely still. Only the hum of computer monitors could be heard. ‘Also known as Angie or Ange. Twenty-two years old, slim, blonde, address 14a Marsh Crescent. She was killed about twenty-four hours before her body was discovered in Lyceum Park this morning by a young child playing in the bushes. There’s been a lot of disturbance. The child trampled on any evidence that might have been left on the ground, and her au pair went crashing in after her. In addition, the mud’s been disturbed by animals: foxes, rats, squirrels, possibly a dog. Some kind of animal was there over night, tampering with what little evidence there might have been, before the child arrived on the scene to foul things up completely. She was probably killed in the bushes where the body was discovered but SOCOs haven’t been able to identify individual footprints or movements with any certainty, due to all the mess at the scene.’ She grimaced. ‘The victim was strangled so we’re not looking for a weapon but uniform are making a thorough search of the surrounding area. At the end of this briefing some of you will be joining them.’

The DCI paused and glanced back at the picture on the

Incident Board before continuing. ‘The victim’s wrists were held together over her coat sleeves so it’s impossible to say what was used to secure them. She was very thin so her assailant might have held her wrists with one hand just long enough to force her to the ground. We won’t know more until we get a full forensic report but it seems nothing’s been left at the scene to help us identify the killer. Any threads have probably been brushed off in the leaves, mud and animal faeces. From the pattern of bruising on the neck we believe the killer was wearing leather gloves, but there’s no other trace, no blood from the victim or the killer, no saliva, no dandruff, no blood or skin under her fingernails. A fingertip search of the immediate area has revealed nothing so far. Hopefully we’ll have more to go on after the full postmortem report tomorrow but so far there’s no sign of any defence injuries.’

The DCI looked around. ‘We need a swift result,’ she said. ‘We’ll interview all the usual suspects, and anyone who may have known the victim: boyfriend, family, acquaintances, anyone who knew her. We need to chat up the neighbours, check out the local shops and pub. Angela lived with a man, John Drew. Drew works in ...’ she glanced down for corroboration, ‘car sales. The Honda showroom on the Hinckley roundabout. We need to check out the workplace. Let’s do it this morning, while he’s not there. He went home, after we told him about Angela’s death. See what you can dig up about him from his colleagues while he’s out of the way and don’t be too gentle. We’re also looking for anyone with a history of violent assault. I want all the local hostels checked, and a thorough grilling of anyone recently released or out on parole. Whatever there is, find it.’ Glancing round, Geraldine caught DS Peterson’s eye and he grinned at her.

‘Right, get your schedules from the duty manager. DC Mellor, can you get on to Rotherhithe where Angela Waters comes from? Ask them to speak to the mother, interview Angela’s brother, and find out if there was a father around.’ Sarah Mellor looked up from her notepad and nodded, her smile a welcome surprise among the tense faces.

Geraldine, sent to interview the child and the au pair, was pleased to find she was working with DS Peterson.

As the team dispersed, Kathryn Gordon stood for a moment gazing at the victim’s face. It wasn’t the image of death that worried her, but the prospect of a lucky killer. So far wildlife and a small child had obliterated any evidence. She glanced round the quiet Incident Room before slipping into her office. Closing the door firmly, she opened a filing cabinet and drew out a bottle of whiskey.

5

Gerta

There were two people in the porch. The man was broad shouldered, towering over the woman who stood very still and upright, her dark hair pulled back neatly from her face. Judi knew who they were straight away but she checked their ID carefully all the same. As police officers, she was sure they’d appreciate her responsible caution.

The woman’s voice was low and soothing, well trained in calming nerves and situations. ‘Mrs Judith Brightley? You spoke to Detective Constable Mellor this morning. I’m Detective Inspector Steel and this is Detective Sergeant Peterson. We’ve come to question your au pair, Gerta Hersch. I understand she can speak without an interpreter.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Do come in, Inspector Steel and ... er ...’

‘Sergeant Peterson.’

‘Yes. This way. Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?’

She left them in the lounge and called from the bottom of the wide staircase. ‘Gerta! Can you come down please?’ For such a shrimp of a woman, she had a surprisingly loud voice, Geraldine thought. Glancing round, she smiled at the sergeant’s grunt of appreciation as he sunk his bulk onto a large chintz sofa.

Gerta’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying as she came into the room, sniffing noisily. She sat down and began to sob quietly, twisting a handkerchief in her small fingers.

‘Miss Hersch, did you know the dead woman? Was she a friend of yours?’ Peterson asked brusquely. Geraldine noted with surprise that the sight of a woman in tears seemed to irritate him. A brief memory flickered into her mind, a snatch of conversation overheard at the station; Peterson was having problems with his girlfriend. Geraldine gave the au pair a sympathetic smile.

‘No.’ The sobbing stopped and she blew her nose noisily.

‘Thank you. Now, perhaps, we can make a start. Please tell us exactly what happened this morning, Miss Hersch.’ The DS had his notebook ready.

‘Ja. I am in the park with my little girl Sophie, James and Otto also.’

‘James and Otto ...?’

Judi entered softly with a tray of tea and luxury biscuits, a small child in tow. She handed the visitors their cups, offered the biscuits, and sat down with the third cup. No tea for Gerta. The small girl, aged about four, stared at Geraldine with huge blue eyes.

‘Jamie is my next-door neighbour’s son,’ Judi explained. ‘Otto’s his friend.’ The child burst into a curious wail. ‘Oh dear.’ Judi set her cup down. ‘What is it, my precious?’ Geraldine almost choked on her tea at seeing how seriously Sophie’s mother took the child’s tantrum. Peterson coughed to cover a smile or a grimace, it was difficult to tell which. He put down his pencil and took a quick gulp of his tea. The china cup looked like part of a doll’s tea set in his hand.

‘Jamie’s my friend!’ the child blubbered. Geraldine saw the child dart a calculating glance from behind her fingers at her mother, who was clearly taken in by her show of grief.

‘Yes, yes,’ she crooned, ‘Jamie’s your friend. No one said he wasn’t.’

‘Perhaps you could take Sophie out so that we can talk to Miss Hersch?’ Was that a touch of sharpness in Peterson’s voice, Geraldine wondered? He was shaping up well, affable but very quick on the uptake, and not afraid to speak his mind.

‘Horrid, horrid Gerta!’ Sophie shrieked, directing a look of such alarming gall at the au pair that Geraldine was intrigued.

‘Why?’ she asked, and noticed Peterson sit back, relieved. Doubtless she could rely on him to intimidate an intransigent villain, but a four-year-old girl was unfamiliar territory, and this four-year-old was plainly used to getting her own way. Geraldine sank to her knees and whispered confidentially to the child. ‘Tell me about Gerta.’ The tears vanished in a twinkle.

‘Jamie’s my friend. We play nicely. Mummy said so.’ The nature of Gerta’s offence soon became clear: she’d allowed Otto to play with Jamie. Geraldine took a deep breath. She had no special training in interviewing children, but she could be patient. ‘Gerta’s horrid and silly. She made Jamie play with Otto and she made me go under the leaves with a stick.’ She glanced up at her mother. ‘I played with a stick. A big stick. Gerta made me. And Gerta made me touch the hand. It got bigger and bigger until it was huge and I cried and cried because ...’ she paused to check that she had their attention, ‘... it was the wicked witch!’ She plopped her thumb into her mouth and reached out to her mother for reassurance.

‘So, Miss Hersch,’ Geraldine resumed as she rose from her knees and returned to her seat, ‘the children,’ she avoided mentioning their names, ‘were playing and ...’

‘Sophie is playing.’ The au pair threw a fearful glance at her employer. ‘She is hiding in the bushes. She knows she must not go in the bushes. It is not permitted to go in the bushes. I am telling her this.’ Mrs Brightley sniffed. Geraldine wondered if this domestic drama would end in a dismissal and a call to the agency for a replacement. Or perhaps the cowed Gerta would be more amenable now she’d slipped up and allowed Sophie to run off, unsupervised.

‘I am seeing at once she is gone,’ Gerta continued. ‘Quickly I look and I find her in the bushes.’ She shuddered, back in the moment. ‘And I am seeing something in the bushes. Under the leafs I am seeing the hand. It is the hand of the woman. I bring Sophie away from the leafs at once. I am cleaning her and I call at once Mrs Brightley and she is telling me go to the home. I bring Sophie to the home at once. And the little boys also. And Mrs Brightley is calling the policeman on the telephone.’

Peterson was scribbling furiously. Gerta slumped in her chair gazing disconsolately at Sophie who scowled back at her. A single tear flickered down the au pair’s cheek and Geraldine thought how young she looked – eighteen, nineteen – to be so far from home, hemmed in by a foreign tragedy. She’d probably been looking forward to coming to England. Poor kid.

‘Thank you very much, Miss Hersch. You’ve been most helpful.’ With a polite nod at Mrs Brightley, she stood up.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ Peterson added as he rose to follow.

‘We’re looking at a quick, efficient murder, not a bungled assault,’ Geraldine said, as they drove back to the station. ‘What does that tell us?’

Peterson glanced across at her. ‘Someone wanted to make sure she was dead?’

She paused. ‘There’s no sign of any struggle.’

‘Perhaps she knew her killer,’ the DS replied, ‘and wasn’t expecting an attack. But we know he approached her from behind,’ he added, ‘so it could have been a complete stranger, taking her by surprise.’

‘It doesn’t look like a frenzied attack,’ Geraldine said, ‘more a deliberate killing. Almost clinical. Was it planned? Did her killer just want her out of the way, for some reason?’

‘Which would mean he knew her.’ Peterson pulled up at a red light and turned to look at her.

‘Does it point to that? That the killer hated her, enough to want to kill her?’ She pondered. ‘It was relatively quick. Hopefully she didn’t even have time to realise what was happening. He came up behind her, grabbed her arms, pulled them behind her back, maybe tied them, just enough to immobilise them, although I don’t know if he’d have had time for that, turned her round to face him – I wonder why? – and strangled her. He’s a strong bastard. It was all over pretty quickly. But then, he had to be quick. He must’ve been afraid of being disturbed.’

‘Oh, he was disturbed all right,’ Peterson said.

Geraldine tried to imagine the scene. ‘A sudden rush of fear and a frantic struggle, before she lost consciousness. It would all have been over in a couple of minutes. No time to shout for help.’

‘She might have been too frightened to call out, or too surprised. Then again, we don’t know she didn’t shout for help,’ Peterson pointed out. The traffic light turned green and he pulled away. ‘Are you saying you think the killer wanted to finish the job quickly so she didn’t suffer?’

‘A considerate killer? It’s possible, if he knew her. But so was the need to finish the job quickly. He strangled her in the park, remember.’

‘Yes,’ Peterson agreed. ‘He’d have to be quick, whatever his feelings.’

‘But why would he do it in such a public place?’

‘Suggests an opportunistic killing. In any event, he wouldn’t want to hang around.’

‘So the question is: did he want to kill her? Or did he want her dead?’ Geraldine asked intensely. Peterson frowned and she shook her head. ‘It’s not the same, is it? Not the same thing at all. Because if he simply wanted to kill ... regardless of his victim’s identity ...’ She fell silent and they considered the possibility. ‘But the killer wanted to see his victim’s face. He was checking he had the right girl,’ she went on uncertainly.

‘Or he was enjoying watching her,’ Peterson said grimly. Geraldine winced as the DS voiced her own fears. They both knew that if the killer had strangled Angela Waters in pursuit of some perverse pleasure, he was likely to strike again.

The Incident Board had been updated. The names of Angela Waters’ mother and brother were pinned up. Carter had taken a sergeant to the car showroom, a twenty-minute drive away, from where he would go on to question the neighbours. Merton was following up known offenders. Geraldine’s next task was to visit the café where Angela had worked and then interview her boyfriend, John Drew. She tried to suppress her excitement. Statistically, she knew the boyfriend was the most likely suspect.

6

Café

A menu hung in the bay window of the Bella Cafe, alongside a notice advising customers that the café was open from ‘7 to 7, for the Best Cup of Coffee, with a Choice of Genuine Italian Pastries’. The fluorescent-lit interior boasted gaudy orange walls and tubular steel chairs with garish green plastic seats. It was empty apart from a girl dressed in black trousers and a white shirt who greeted them solemnly.

‘Table for two?’

Geraldine held up her warrant card. Wordlessly the girl motioned them to a corner table.

‘It’s about Angie, isn’t it? Is she in some sort of trouble? Only she didn’t turn up for work yesterday and the boss is hopping mad. She still hasn’t called in. I tried to phone but she’s not answering her mobile. Has something happened to her?’ She waited between them as they sat down.

‘Please take a seat, Miss ...?’

‘Christina.’ She fell into a chair and rested her chin on her hands. ‘Boss’ll be out soon.’ She nodded morosely in the direction of a small white door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.

‘How well did you know Angela Waters?’ Geraldine asked her cautiously. She placed a tape recorder on the table. Peterson sat, pen poised. Christina looked up and the question hung in the air as a stout, balding man burst through the staff door and summoned her with a peremptory gesture. She rose and shuffled over to him. Although he spoke in muted tones they could tell he was scolding her. Finally she remonstrated and his demeanour transformed. He switched his attention to the two detectives and advanced on them, his head inclined sideways in a servile pose. A black moustache bobbed on his upper lip as he spoke.

‘Sir, I beg pardon.’ His voice was incongruously high. ‘I did not appreciate you are police. Please accept coffee. On the house.’ He threw a perfunctory nod at Christina before smiling at Peterson.

Geraldine addressed him. ‘We’d like to speak to Christina without interruptions, and then we’ll talk to you, Mr ...?’

‘Umberto. Antonio Umberto is—’

‘We’d like you to close your café while we talk to you, Mr Umberto. Please turn your sign round. We’ll start with Christina. This needn’t take long,’ she added, as the proprietor stiffened. He scurried to the door, then withdrew behind the counter to eavesdrop.

Geraldine spoke quietly. Across the table, she saw Peterson struggling to catch her words as they dropped into the silence. Christina glanced nervously at her boss, busily straightening wilting sandwiches on a white plate.

‘Christina, I’m sorry to have to bring you bad news about Angela. She was attacked in the park yesterday, and died there.’ The girl looked down at the table. She didn’t make a sound but her chin trembled and she pressed her hands together in her lap until her knuckles went white. Geraldine waited.

‘Killed?’ Christina repeated at last in a barely audible murmur.

Briefly, Geraldine outlined what had happened. ‘She didn’t suffer, but we have to find out who did this, so I need to ask you a few questions.’

Christina had worked with Angela Waters for seven months, but as far as information went, it was soon clear they’d drawn a blank. Christina knew little about her co- worker beyond what had emerged in idle chatter during quiet moments. The girls didn’t socialise outside work and Christina had never met John Drew.

‘Who?’

‘Angela’s boyfriend.’

‘Oh, Johnny. Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t know his surname. Ange never stopped talking about him. She was crazy about him. I told her she was too young to even think about marriage. ‘Get out there and play the field,’ I told her.’

‘Had Johnny asked her to marry him?’

‘I don’t think so. It was just something she talked about, you know, how some girls do. I think she put up with a lot from him but they seemed to be working it out.’

‘Working what out?’ Peterson asked.

‘His commitment phobia. The usual.’ She shrugged. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she blinked. The reality of her colleague’s death had hit her. Christina leaned her elbows on the table and shielded her face with one hand. The fleeting intimacy had slipped away.

‘You said she put up with a lot from him. What did you mean?’ Geraldine asked. Christina shook her head. ‘Did she ever mention an argument? Did she complain that he drank? That he’d lashed out at her in a rage?’

‘Look, I never met the guy. All I know is she said she thought he was the one, you know. He was always giving her flowers, which was sweet, but she was scared he wasn’t the marrying type. The good ones generally aren’t.’ Mark darted into Geraldine’s thoughts but she drove him from her mind and focused resolutely on what Christina was saying. ‘She never said anything about any fights.’

‘You said she put up with a lot from him?’

‘Only that he wouldn’t make a commitment. They never do.’

Geraldine carefully kept her voice even. ‘Do you think one of them might have been seeing someone else?’

‘You mean two-timing? Not her. She was crazy about him. And, anyway, she’s not like that. I told you, she’s ... she was nice.’

‘And her boyfriend?’ Peterson pressed her, but the questioning had lost its force.

‘Look, I want to help the police and all that, but I don’t know anything about her boyfriend. I never met the guy. As for Ange, she was really nice, but I only ever saw her here. I don’t even know where she lives.’ Christina looked close to tears again.

‘Thank you, Christina. You’ve been very helpful.’ Geraldine pulled out a card and handed it to the girl. ‘I’d like you to contact us if you think of anything else that might help us to find out more about Angela.’ Geraldine looked up and caught the proprietor’s eye, he was listening intently. He looked away quickly, and resumed fiddling with the food on the counter. ‘Mr Umberto,’ Geraldine called, ‘we’d like to speak to you now, please.’ He kept his eyes fixed sullenly on the floor as he walked to the corner table.

‘Go clean the kitchen,’ Umberto growled as he sat down. Christina jumped up and disappeared through the staff door.

Umberto looked apprehensively from Peterson to Geraldine. ‘I been busy,’ he said. ‘My kitchen always sparkles like a pin. Only one of my staff, she’s gone. Just like that. Not a word.’ He threw his hands in the air, making a whistling sound through pursed lips. ‘This is how it is with young girls today.’ He shrugged. ‘They come, they work a little, they go. Who knows where they go, one day she’s here, next day she’s gone. Not even a phone call. Not a word. Is not like Italy, the young women. Here no one cares, no one got family to teach them what is right and what is wrong.’ He sighed. ‘Now what am I going to do?’

Geraldine interrupted him. ‘Angela Waters is dead, Mr Umberto.’

He looked shocked. ‘Angela dead?’ he repeated, his nervous chatter silenced. He stared at Geraldine. ‘She is dead, you telling me?’ He crossed himself, and shut his eyes briefly.

Geraldine asked for Angela Waters’ details and Umberto hurried through the staff door to fetch them. He ran on his toes, surprisingly light on his feet, returning a moment later with a slip of paper. Angela’s name, address and mobile telephone number had been written in a childish scrawl in smudgy blue biro. After seven months’ employment, that was all she’d left behind. Umberto had no other records. He’d paid her in cash. He assured them he kept scrupulous records, which were available for inspection at any time, but they weren’t at the café just then. They were with his most honest accountant, a good man, more like a priest, who helped him.

Geraldine interrupted his earnest defence. ‘We don’t want to inspect your records, Mr Umberto, although I daresay the Inland Revenue would find them interesting.’ Umberto was deeply sorry but his accountant was on holiday and ‘all my papers are taken with him.’ His protestations about Angela were equally insincere. He declared that the café would never recover from her loss. ‘She don’t complain. She is clean and always she smiles to see me.’ The only thing that rang true was when he said, ‘Always she gets good tips. Is good for everyone, yes?’

‘We’d like to take a look around,’ Peterson said.

Mr Umberto flushed. ‘You want to look around?’ he repeated, as though the sergeant had made an obscene suggestion. He followed them through the door marked STAFF ONLY. Christina wasn’t there. As Geraldine turned to Umberto, the girl reappeared through the fire door. She smelt of cigarette smoke. Geraldine and Peterson exchanged a glance.

‘I just been out for a breath of air,’ Christina mumbled, and turned to the sink. She began to scrub it furiously. Mr Umberto nodded and shrugged, as if to say, ‘What can you do? You just can’t get the staff nowadays. Is not like Italy.’ They had a quick look around the kitchen.

‘I’d like to speak to you again, Christina. In here.’ Geraldine led the girl back in to the café and they sat down, out of earshot of Umberto. ‘Just one last question, Christina. You were here at work, yesterday morning?’ The girl nodded. ‘What time did you arrive?’

‘I was on the morning shift but Angie never turned up at one so the boss asked me to stay on. He was hopping mad. It wasn’t the first time. She was always phoning in sick. Only yesterday she never phoned. The boss swore he’d sack her this time. I had to work a twelve hour day, without a break.’ Peterson’s eyes narrowed at that but Geraldine focused on her line of questioning.

‘Were you busy here yesterday morning?’

Christina shrugged. ‘The usual.’

‘How does it work, then, Christina? You’re serving at the tables, and Mr Umberto is where? In the kitchen?’

The girl laughed. ‘Him? In the kitchen? Never. That’s me, that is. In and out the kitchen, serving tables, clearing tables, washing up. All he ever does is stand behind the till and make sandwiches. He won’t trust anyone else to do it. No one slices like he does, he says.’

‘I bet he can slice cucumber thinner than anyone,’ Peterson chipped in and Christina sniggered.

‘You’re right there.’

‘Did he go out to the kitchen at all?’

‘No. I told you. He never does. All he ever does is stand by his precious till, slicing, and grinning at people as they order their sandwiches.’

‘Was he here all morning yesterday, Christina? He didn’t go out for anything? Think carefully.’

Christina answered straight away. ‘He never leaves the café when it’s open. He doesn’t trust anyone. Won’t even go to the toilet. He won’t give anyone else a key, or let us near the till.’ Geraldine sat back. She had her answer. Antonio Umberto couldn’t have slipped out to the park on Wednesday morning.

‘The Food Standards Agency might want a chat with that charmer, after the Inland Revenue finish with him,’ Peterson muttered to Geraldine as they climbed back in the car.

She nodded. ‘Remind me to cross Bella Café off my list of places to eat.’

‘What do you reckon on Umberto, ma’am? I think he’s hiding something.’

‘He’s a slimeball all right,’ Geraldine agreed, ‘but the waitress gave him an alibi. And being crooked doesn’t make him a suspect in a murder case. Where’s his motive?’

‘Umberto’s accounts are fiddled,’ Peterson said. ‘Maybe Angela Waters found out.’

‘Hardly a motive for murder.’

‘She could have been blackmailing him?’

‘Hmm. It’s a thought, I suppose. Christina’s given him an alibi, but we’ll check out the possibility anyway.’ Peterson grinned enthusiastically as she gave some credence to his theory, making her remember he’d only recently been promoted to DS. ‘I’ll have a constable put onto it straight away,’ she promised. ‘We can find out if there’s been any unusual activity in his account, or any change in his takings or spending, although I’ll bet a lot of it never reaches the bank.’ There was a pause.

‘What are you thinking, ma’am?’ he asked.

‘I’m thinking we should pay a visit to Johnny Drew,’ she replied. ‘And I’m thinking it’s time you called me gov.’

‘Right you are, gov,’ he grinned again. Geraldine glanced in the mirror as they drove away. The sign on the door had been turned round. It was business as usual at the Bella Café.

7

Johnny

The flat Angela Waters had shared with her boyfriend was above a shabby parade of shops on the edge of a rundown estate. Dull white paint stained yellowy brown, like nicotine fingers, grimy shop frontages, litter blowing across the pavement: torn newspaper, food cartons, plastic bags like deflated balloons brought urban wildlife in the shape of foxes and rats scavenging the area. Yet the street possessed a vitality lacking in the more expensive areas of town; a community that screamed its commitment to life. However hard it might be, life was precious.

Geraldine heard the sergeant’s feet thud above her on the concrete staircase. It formed a dismal passageway between a derelict printer’s and a flower shop from which a dark-haired girl in a very short skirt stared curiously at them. The staircase stank. Geraldine reached the top and stepped on to a balcony that ran above the shop fronts. It was draughty and strangely quiet. Geraldine looked over the parapet on to the street where, far below, a group of boys in grey and brown hoods were kicking a can along the gutter. From her elevated viewpoint, she watched a diminutive old woman crawl along the pavement towards them. Geraldine tensed, but the youngsters were intent on their can.

She knew she mustn’t let her judgement be clouded by intuition, but Geraldine had misgivings about Johnny Drew even before she saw him. He made them wait too long and when he finally came to the door, his woebegone expression was too fixed. Although he displayed all the signs of the shocked bereaved, she was convinced he was playing a part. Following him along the gloomy hallway, Geraldine sized him up from behind, noting his narrow shoulders and torso, his body skinny beneath a tight fitting T-shirt. He led them into a back room that smelt of stale beer and cigarettes, where they sat on a worn sofa and chairs that didn’t match. Restless eyes in a sharp face flitted over her and away in motion as rapid as the movements of a trapped fly.

Frowning at her notebook, she struggled to keep up with Drew’s pat answers. He had probably been rehearsing this scenario for hours. He must have known they’d be round. He spent his working week selling cars. Now he was selling his innocence. Geraldine hadn’t believed his expressions of grief, but nor did she believe he had killed Angela Waters. Once again, she couldn’t have said why, but something didn’t feel right. His grief might seem insincere, but that didn’t make him a murderer.

Angela had allegedly complained that Johnny wasn’t ready to settle down, but that was hardly a motive for murder. His alibi was more interesting. It wasn’t watertight, not by a long chalk. He told them he’d been busy arranging test drives on the morning of the 26th September. Details of cars rolled off his tongue, but he couldn’t give a satisfactory account of his movements between ten and ten thirty. He said he’d been in the forecourt chatting up a punter. It might be true, but he couldn’t recall the customer’s name. He thought it might have been a Mr Shah. He’d only met Angela’s mother and brother once and admitted he hadn’t liked them much. Angela had never mentioned a father. He didn’t know if her father was alive, didn’t even know if she had one. They’d never talked about their families.

‘Was she seeing anyone else?’ Geraldine hazarded. Johnny actually snorted, oozing confidence. ‘Arrogant bastard,’ she thought.

‘Did she have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might have hated her enough to want to do this to her?’ Peterson asked.

‘Look,’ Johnny burst out, anguish flaring suddenly in his eyes. ‘I’m doing my best to get my head round all this. Not just losing my girl, as if that’s not bad enough, but ...’ He dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook. This was no act. He wasn’t that good. Geraldine gave him a moment.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Drew,’ she resumed, ‘but we’re investigating a murder. If there’s anything you can tell us, anything at all, we need to know. And your alibi ...’ She tailed off pointedly.

‘I’m not a fucking idiot,’ he snapped, raising bloodshot eyes to meet her gaze directly. ‘If I’d wanted to do her in – which I didn’t so don’t go getting the idea that I did – but if I had, don’t you think I would’ve sorted out a story? Do you think I’m an idiot as well as a murderer? I can’t remember what I was doing at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. I was probably having a smoke. If there was an appointment at ten it would’ve been in the book. But I was at work. I never left the place that morning, I’m sure of that. And I didn’t kill Ange. What the hell do you people think? That I’m some kind of perv that gets his rocks off killing girls? It wasn’t me, but someone killed her. And what are you lot doing? Are you out there looking for the sick bastard? No, you’re in here, harassing the one person who cared for her. I looked after Angie. She was just a kid, that’s all. How am I going to manage now?’ It could have been a cry from the heart, or a calculated bid for sympathy. Either way, they weren’t going to get any more out of him.

‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?’ He shook his head. ‘Thank you, Mr Drew. We’ll be in touch.’

‘Damn right you will. I want to know who the fucking bastard is who did this to my girl. And if I ever get my hands on him, you’ll have something on me all right.’

As they reached the bottom of the concrete staircase and emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, the dark-haired girl from the flower shop darted past them up the stairs. Geraldine watched the top of her head as it bobbed along the balcony and stopped outside Johnny Drew’s door.

‘I wonder what he does with all his money,’ she muttered. ‘He can’t spend it all on this dump.’ John Drew was dodgy, but Geraldine didn’t believe he’d murdered Angela Waters. He hadn’t felt comfortable expressing his grief, but he’d shown no signs of remorse, and although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, he didn’t fit the mental image she was forming of the killer. Intuition was useless without evidence, but Johnny Drew felt wrong. As far as Geraldine was concerned, the identity of the killer remained a mystery.

8

Chips

Jim was frightened. He didn’t know why. People stared at him or pretended he was invisible. A woman turned her head away as she passed him. She knew what he was thinking. Women could do that.

‘I done nothing to be ashamed of,’ he muttered crossly.

‘I know you do your best,’ Miss Elsie said. He smiled because she’d come back.

‘Miss Elsie!’ He called softly, in case anyone was listening. A man glared at him and he walked more quickly.

‘Don’t panic,’ Miss Elsie said. He fumbled in his pocket for the key to his room and threw it down a dark glistening drain. That was clever because now they’d never find out where he lived. Then he frowned. It meant he couldn’t go home. That was a shame because he liked his room. He had a picture of Miss Elsie there, hidden in a box on top of the wardrobe.

‘Put your thinking cap on,’ Miss Elsie said, but that wasn’t fair. He was hungry. He couldn’t think when he was hungry.

‘Is that all you got?’ the girl asked when he held out a twenty pound note. She was stupid. Twenty pounds was a lot of money. He was only buying chips.

‘I want chips please,’ he repeated. He spoke as clearly as he could and thrust his twenty-pound note at her again. The girl scowled as she took it.

‘I give you coins,’ she complained, handing over his chips. The girl turned to the till. Jim saw a black ponytail dangling below her cap. The chips warmed his hands as he stared at her hair, swinging. If he lunged forward he’d be able to reach it. The sight of her hair made him forget about her funny voice. He grinned. ‘What you laughing at?’ the girl asked, spinning round suddenly to face him. He could tell she was cross. Their fingers touched as she held out his change. Her skin felt greasy and he nearly dropped his chips in fright. He turned and ran. ‘Hey! You forget change!’ the girl shouted half-heartedly.

He kept running. He ran until his legs ached. When he stopped, winded, he was round the corner from the park. The chips were cold but he ate them greedily, sitting on the doorstep of an empty house. When he’d finished eating he felt thirsty. He needed a drink and somewhere to sleep. He glanced around. No one could see him sitting there, concealed behind an overgrown hedge. Drawing his knees up to his chin he wrapped his arms round his legs and began rocking gently backwards and forwards.

‘Clever boy,’ Miss Elsie said and he laughed softly to himself. They’d never find her, hidden under the leaves. And they’d never find him.

9

Honda