Cold Shoulder (14 page)

Rooney paused as the men murmured and made notes. ‘Okay. Obviously the Norman Hastings killing is different because he’s male. Maybe the car was stolen and Hastings managed to see or catch the thief. Either way, he was killed with a similar weapon to that used on each of the others: a claw hammer. We know it’s not the same weapon — some of the impressions taken from the women are of different dimensions, but all of them have been hammered in the face, and the claw section used for one blow at the back of the skull, near the base. When the victim is face downwards, the claw hammer strikes and gets drawn upwards, leaving — as you can see — one hell of an open wound.’

Rooney waited as they took it all in, then began again. ‘The women are all prostitutes, all with records, obviously all blonde. No witnesses. Nobody has ever come forward with any motive, and so far we haven’t found a link between the women, apart from their line of business and the fact they were tall, blonde and — apart from the last girl, Angela Hollow, nicknamed Holly — all dogs.’

Rooney continued for another hour, explaining the Summerses’ part in the inquiry and Hastings’s missing wallet. He concluded with the description of the man driving Hastings’s stolen car. The man they were hunting, he pointed out, would have a bad bite mark on his neck, close to the jugular, according to Helen Murphy.

‘Our first hammer killing comes in 1986, the next 1987, then 1988, 1991, which was Maria Valez, and the last two, Helen Murphy and Angela Hollow, plus Hastings, are all within months, if not days of each other. We’ve got a gap between ‘88 and ‘91, unless more come to light. Let’s hope to God they don’t — and let’s give this all we’ve got.’

One young, eager-faced officer asked where they were going to start and Rooney, unsure himself, snapped that as the victims were hookers, they should start by asking on the streets, in the brothels. To begin with he wanted it kept low key and, until they had more evidence, he wanted the press kept out for as long as possible.

Rooney returned to his office feeling worn out and hungry. Bean looked up as he barked out, ‘You feel like some curry?’

Bean didn’t, but agreed to accompany Rooney, because he didn’t think they should keep it from the press.

As they got into the car, Rooney gave him a sidelong look. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, I don’t think we should keep this quiet. We could have a multiple killer on the loose! Those gaps between the murders, what if our man was in prison?’

‘Whoever the fuck he is, he’s on the loose now.’

‘That’s my point, Bill. He killed Norman Hastings, Helen Murphy, Angela Hollow within weeks of each other. Even if it’s hookers he’s taking out, the street girls should be warned.’

As Bean expected, Rooney dismissed this. ‘We get the fuckin’ press on this, they’ll blow it up out of all proportion. This way it’s giving us time to make some headway, because we have fuck all but—’

‘A pretty tight description. Somebody somewhere knows a guy with a fucking bite out of his neck.’

Rooney started the engine. ‘
That
we never put out, else we’ll have Dracula and his uncle wastin’ our time… The guys on the street can put the word out to the whores but, you know as well as me, nothin’ stops them. They’ll keep on trading no matter who we say is out there.’ He turned the car and prepared to drive out of the police pound.

‘Who do you think is out there, Bill?’

‘Someone with a hatred of tall skinny blonde whores — how the fuck do I know? You got his description, what do you think?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Right, you don’t know, nobody knows. They may give us all the psychological profiles from so-called professors, why he kills, what he gets out of it. But when you say: “Okay, where do I find the guy?” they don’t fuckin’ know. The truth is, Josh, they can pinpoint or direct us to a psycho, because he’s obvious. But our man, he’s not obvious. He’s cool, it looks like he’s been getting away with it for years. It don’t even run to a pattern because of Norman Hastings, who was a straight, decent guy.’

They drove out of the yard in silence. Then Bean sighed. ‘Killer obviously has a thing about hookers…’

Rooney snorted. ‘So maybe his mother or his wife was one. Then you can say he’s killing
her.
Bullshit. I hated my mother but that don’t make me want to kill every square-faced, red-haired tyrant, now, does it?’

He drew up outside the Star of Asia and switched off the engine. He was beginning to wish he’d not asked Bean along. ‘That means he’s just taking out his hammer whenever he feels like it. Now shut up, I’m hungry and I don’t wanna talk about it.’ Rooney got out, locked the car, and caught sight of Art’s Gallery. ‘Christ, how did that spring up? It was an old real estate agency yesterday.’

He wandered over to look: inside were a lot of people rapping and drinking, arty types, not his sort. A cab drew up and more guests began heading inside. A good-looking coiffured man in a pale blue denim outfit paid off the driver, adjusted his shades, and followed his two tanned friends into the gallery as Rooney walked into his favourite curry restaurant. Art screamed out a welcome to his friend Craig Lyall and drew him into the throng.

Some time later Jake arrived with Rosie and Lorraine. They drew up and parked behind Rooney’s car. Jake was wearing a cheap suit with a nylon shirt and wide flowered tie, Rosie a tent-type dress that accentuated rather than hid her bulk, various bead necklaces that clicked as she walked, and a pair of leather sandals. Lorraine had on the same fawn skirt now pressed, the black crêpe blouse, and the safari-style jacket draped around her shoulders. This evening she wore sling-back high heels, and appeared taller and thinner. Her make-up was as sparse as ever, and, as Rosie had refused to let her borrow the pearl studs, she had no jewellery. Art made a great fuss of her when she walked in, telling her she looked simply wonderful, and that her friends were more than welcome.

A camp young man was drifting around with a tray of wine. Lorraine was about to accept a glass when Jake asked loudly for mineral water and she quickly withdrew her hand. The three of them stood a little self-consciously at the doorway to the main room which was crowded with guests.

‘Do you want to see the paintings?’ asked Lorraine.

‘Are there any?’ Rosie couldn’t see a single canvas as they edged further inside.

Nula beckoned Lorraine and took hold of her hand. ‘I remembered where I had seen you — at a meeting!’

Lorraine was puzzled, then she understood. She looked at her glass of water, noting that Nula had one too. She asked about Didi and Nula told her about the twisted ankle.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, after all her hard work, too. Have many pictures been sold?’

Nula shrugged. ‘I hope so. Art is broke, but then, aren’t we all?’

Lorraine looked across at Rosie and Jake standing exactly where she had left them. ‘Come and meet my friends?’

Jake was polite, but Rosie stared, looking at Nula with such obvious fascination that Lorraine felt uncomfortable, but Nula didn’t seem to mind. She chatted on about the gallery, how much work she and Didi had done and how marvellous Lorraine had been. ‘Were you an actress?’ she asked Lorraine suddenly.

Lorraine smiled. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘What do you do?’ asked Rosie bluntly.

Nula cocked her head on one side and smiled. ‘Anyone who hires me, dear.’

Rosie wasn’t sure what she meant and didn’t care, she was hot and her feet hurt. She caught Jake’s eye. ‘Look, I don’t think this was such a good idea, why don’t we leave?’

Jake looked at Lorraine. ‘Okay by me. Lorraine?’

They were about to walk out when Art caught Lorraine’s hand and drew her towards some of his friends. Rosie and Jake waited for ten minutes beside the car before Lorraine appeared. ‘You two go on, I’ll stay for a while longer. Art needs me to help out a bit.’

Jake opened the driver’s door, and was about to get into the car when a big pot-bellied man walked out of the Star of Asia, accompanied by a fresh-faced, square-jawed younger man. The older man was deep in conversation while searching in his pockets for his car keys. Yet he couldn’t help but see Lorraine, who was only yards ahead of him. Jake saw the way Rooney looked, then looked again. He stopped talking in mid-sentence, as if surprised, or shocked. Jake couldn’t make out which.

‘Lorraine?’ Rooney said loudly.

She half turned and took a sharp involuntary step back, bumping into Rosie.

‘It is Lorraine, isn’t it?’ Rooney stepped closer.

Jake noticed the way she straightened her shoulders, clenched her fists.

‘Lorraine,’ Rooney repeated again. He couldn’t stop staring — it was like seeing a ghost. Was it her? Or was he mistaken? Then she tilted her head, gave that sidelong look and he knew for sure. He said emphatically, but flatly, ‘It’s Lorraine Page.’ She gave a barely detectable nod and hurried back inside the gallery. Rooney watched her go, then stared directly at Jake and Rosie. ‘Evening.’

Rosie heaved herself into the car. Jake slammed his door, still observing Rooney as he walked around to his own car.

‘What was that all about?’ Rosie asked.

Jake shrugged as Rooney drove away. ‘He’s a cop, so is the guy with him. That Indian diner’s a known hangout for ‘em. But that’s Bill Rooney, a real mean shit.’

Rosie was astonished. ‘My, I have never heard you talk like that!’

‘Well, maybe there’s a lot about me you don’t know. I guess there is about your room-mate, too. That fat prick busted me, maybe he arrested her too. Looked like he knew Lorraine from some place she didn’t want to be remembered bein’ in.’

He drove a few yards, then stopped. ‘Maybe I should go back, see if she’s okay. She looked a bit shook up.’ He was about to reverse when Lorraine walked out of the gallery with Nula and hailed a cab.

Jake set off again. ‘You know any more about her? She ever mention some money she had? Remember that night she came back, when she said she’d fallen? She had a lot of money on her then.’

Rosie looked out of the window. ‘She told me she sold off some things a friend was keeping for her. Jake, I think I’m gonna ask her to leave. There’s something about her — I dunno, but she’s…’

‘Tough?’ said Jake.

‘Yes, with a selfish streak, too. I mean, I kind of admire the way she’s getting herself together but I know as much about her now as I did when I first met her. Sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t want anyone to know her.’

‘That cop knew her. He knew her very well.’

Rooney pulled on the handbrake outside Bean’s apartment. ‘She was picked up for prostitution. Last they put her in a straitjacket, she was that crazy.’

Bean had his hand on the door handle. ‘She looked straightened out tonight.’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah, she sure as hell did. Mind you, I didn’t get that close a view, but she was one hell of a looker back then — never fooled around, well, not that I knew of. I think she even had a couple of kids, married a lawyer, but whatever she was, she blew it. That lady sure as hell hit the skids.’

Bean opened the door. He was barely interested in ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page, but Rooney seemed eager to continue. ‘Killed an unarmed kid.’ He shook his head. ‘Six bullets, emptied the fucking .38 into him — and you know what sickened me? She was laughing, no kidding, meant fuck all to her. She was pissed — she was a lush. I kinda thought she must be dead by now…’

‘Goodnight,’ said Bean, stepping out of the car.

Rooney remained deep in thought. He could still picture her curled up on the washroom floor, skirt up round her thighs. That was the last time he’d seen her, so drunk she couldn’t even stand. That half-smile on her face had been the same half-smile she had given him tonight.

Lorraine looked round Nula’s strange apartment with its outrageously theatrical living room: drapes and frills, mock
leopard skin sofa and chairs, fur rugs, and huge paintings of nude female couples with male genitals displayed in semi-grotesque poses. Just as she was wondering idly if Nula and Didi had been totally transformed or if they still had their cocks, Nula came out of the bedroom. ‘Something terrible happened to a friend of ours.’

A limping, red-eyed Didi appeared, dressed in a scarlet silk kimono, a clutch of tissues in her hand. ‘She was a friend, only seventeen. They found her locked in the trunk of a car. She’d been hammered to death, not a feature left intact, dear… Now what pig-shit bastard could do a thing like that?’

Nula sobbed loudly. ‘We saw her last night — I was standing talking to her. Holly was so cute, so nice…’

Lorraine listened as they wept and wailed. She didn’t know who they were talking about. She tried twice to interject and ask if they’d like her to leave, but they seemed unaware she was in the apartment. Of the two Didi seemed more upset, and it was Nula who eventually turned to Lorraine. ‘I’m glad you’re here, help take our minds off it, she was only a kid… Didi, we gotta keep busy. Let’s feed this babe — come on, get that apron on.’

Didi scurried into the kitchen, and Nula sighed. ‘She’ll be okay now. She’s really upset, but I can always cheer her up.’

They cooked a delicious dinner, and the initial shock of Holly’s death subsided. Their conversation centred on their friend Art: that he was a genius photographer, his boyfriends, his bankruptcy, his inability to stay in business.

Nula gestured to their apartment. ‘This was his, then he made a stack of bread and
he gave
this to us and even when he’s been broke and desperate, he has
never
asked us to leave.’

Lorraine nodded. The place was a nightmare, but that was just her taste, and she was enjoying the outrageousness of the pair, swapping stories, jokes, about old times when they’d been dancers. They didn’t speak of the present, but out came albums and programmes. Eventually they seemed to talk themselves into silence. The subtle music, playing throughout, was switched off, and Lorraine took her cue to leave. She stood up, smiling her thanks.

‘How long have you been dry?’ asked Nula.

‘’Bout four and a half months.’ Nula laughed and told Lorraine that she had been dry eight years, Didi four. She looked at Didi, and then pursed her lips. ‘I suppose we should tell you we’re whores — you’ve probably put two and two together anyway. It’s just that we’d prefer you to hear it from us rather than anyone else — and we’d like to see you again.’