Cold Shoulder (16 page)

The week was good because she was occupied, and with the little money she earned she bought two more outfits from a garage sale. Nula and Didi dropped in for chats, and always brought some home-made banana cake with them. Didi was still limping but she refused to see a doctor. The two transsexuals admired Lorraine’s taste in clothes and discussed second-hand bargains they’d bought. Because of their size they often found it difficult to get really stylish clothes, and especially shoes. Lorraine was looking better and feeling stronger every day. The sweatings were less frequent and she had put on weight.

Rosie had started doing clerical work at home and had hired a computer and printer so she was always in. They began a routine of sharing the cleaning and laundry. Lorraine contributed towards the rent and groceries. It meant that at the end of the week, after she had bought her cigarettes and clothes, she had little left. But what was left, she saved.

When the florist job finished, Lorraine asked Art if he could use her for a few more hours. As more paintings had been sold, and he had discovered a new artist, he took her on for two full days a week, plus the four evenings. There were few customers, and she didn’t know how the gallery paid for itself let alone paid her salary. On her way to and from work she had to pass Fit As A Fiddle, now called Fit ’N’ Fast, and decided to join one of their classes. She only managed the first ten minutes of the step aerobic session before she felt her energy give way. However, she began to practise in the empty gallery with a stack of telephone directories and slowly built up her strength, stepping up and down until her legs felt like jelly.

Lorraine used Art’s telephone daily to try and trace her ex-husband. She called a number of Mike Pages but so far she had been unsuccessful. He had disappeared. Rosie surprised her by suggesting that she call the Bar Association: if he was still practising, they would know his address.

Mike Page was living in Santa Monica. Lorraine had not spoken to him directly, but to a secretary, who confirmed that he had two daughters, Julia and Sally. Before she could ask any further questions, Lorraine hung up. Then she stacked up the telephone books and stepped until she was exhausted.

It was a Friday evening, two weeks since Lorraine had found Mike’s office number. She had put off getting in touch, always making the excuse that she didn’t have enough money to get the bus to Santa Monica — and she was still in need of better clothes. She arrived home with a banana cake made by Didi and some fresh fruit. She was flushed from walking. It had been a full day of exercise: she had done a light workout with Hector, the owner of Fit ’N’ Fast, who had put together a beginner’s programme, starting with small weights, to build up the atrophied muscles in her arms and legs.

Rosie peered up from a mountain of brown envelopes and watched as Lorraine removed from her bag boxes and boxes of vitamins. Hector had taken to giving them to her free because most were samples. He suggested she took vitamins E, C, D and B12, and with her past record of alcohol abuse, he said, zinc. They all knew about Lorraine’s drinking problem — Nula had told them — but Lorraine didn’t mind. It was easier that everyone knew, and besides, as none of them drank she was never tempted.

‘I see we’ve been to the hairdresser’s — or did Hector turn his muscular body to that, too?’ Rosie smirked.

‘No, I had it done at the local.’ She still had the short cropped cut, but she’d had new streaks put in.

Rosie licked a few more envelopes, slapping them down. She didn’t say how good Lorraine looked because she was jealous. Lorraine was changing before her eyes. She was lightly tanned from all her walking back and forth to the gallery and whereas before she had seemed to shuffle, head bent forward, shoulders rounded, now she was straight-backed and looking fit.

Lorraine counted her money, putting some aside for Rosie. Then she went into the bedroom and opened the crammed closet. She took out her shoes, and stuffed the money inside with the rest of her savings. She sniffed gingerly: Rosie’s clothes stank of body odour. She wished she had her own closet.

‘You comin’ to a meeting with me tonight?’ Rosie asked, lolling at the door. ‘Only I got to deliver these so I thought I’d maybe go straight on.’

‘I said I’d go over to see the new paintings being hung.’

Rosie pursed her lips. ‘Hector helping out, too, is he?’

Lorraine sighed. ‘Hector’s gay, Rosie, okay?’

‘Maybe he swings both ways — some of them do, you know…’

‘Rosie, don’t start. Go mail your letters, I’ll make some supper.’

Rosie banged out and Lorraine went into the kitchen. She cleaned up, then sat down by the telephone. She knew it was after office hours, but she just felt like making another of her calls. Mike Page’s answering machine was on. This time she heard his voice, which gave an emergency number where he could be reached. Lorraine jotted it down and waited a moment before she dialled.

‘Hello.’

The high-pitched voice was obviously a child’s.

Lorraine hung up. She lit a cigarette and smoked it before dialling again. This time Mike answered. She had to swallow hard before she could speak.

‘Mike, it’s Lorraine.’

There was a pause before he spoke.

‘Well, long time. How are you?’

‘I’d like to see you… and the girls.’

Another long pause, and then Mike coughed.

‘Yeah, I understand that, and it’s fine by me. When do you want to come?’

Lorraine’s hands were shaking. She couldn’t answer. Mike asked if she was still there. ‘Maybe this weekend?’ he said.

‘You mean tomorrow?’ Lorraine could hardly get her breath.

‘Or Sunday.’ He suggested twelve thirty. They could have lunch, maybe walk on the beach together.

There was another pause. Then Lorraine said, ‘Twelve thirty Sunday, then,’ and hung up before he could say anything else. She stared at his address. Her mouth was dry. She mentally repeated every word they had said to each other. They had not spoken for so long.

She sat cupping a mug of coffee in her hands. She had finally done it. Slowly she calmed herself down. She’d be able to cope, she’d coped so far, and she was looking good. More important, she was sober.

Bill Rooney sat opposite his chief, Michael Berillo, leaning forwards, which made his squat backside spread even more. ‘Nothin’. We’ve not got a single witness—’

‘But there was a witness, Bill.’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah, but that was Helen Murphy. We reckoned he must have tracked her down again after the attack, right? And made sure the second time.’

‘But before she died, this phone call…’

Rooney nodded. ‘That’s what we’ve been going on — all we’ve had — and it was a pretty good description.’

What about the bite?’

‘By now it’ll have healed, or scabbed over, I dunno.’

Chief Michael Berillo was a big, glowering man. No matter what hour of the day or night, he always had a dark, five o’clock shadow. As he leaned back in his chair, his expansive chest almost burst the buttons on his sweat-stained shirt. ‘Any of this Helen Murphy’s associates give you anything?’

‘Nope. She was a real old dog, though, hard to believe anyone’d pick her up, let alone screw her, and most of the people we talked to don’t have a lot to say about her. Nothin’ complimentary — she was trouble with a major T. She’s also moved around. We can’t trace her husband — he’s a trucker, nobody seems to know where he is — and she’s got three kids in care.’

‘Irish?’

‘What?’

The Chief yawned. ‘I said, was she Irish? With a name like Murphy…’

‘No, that’s her husband and he’s from Detroit. We talked to a woman she roomed with, a real dive, and she said nobody had seen the husband for at least six or seven months. But we got him circulated so as soon as he’s traced we’ll question him.’

The two men remained silent, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

‘Six.’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah. Six — seven if we attach Norman Hastings. We’ve interviewed everyone he worked with, everyone he knew. He’s got — or had — a real nice wife and two kids, nobody seems to have anything against him. He was a well-liked, ordinary guy, played poker with a few pals, went to ball games, good steady worker, and—’

The Chief banged his elbows on the desk. ‘No connection to any of these women. Did he pick up hookers?’

Rooney shook his head. ‘If he did, his wife didn’t know it, and none of his friends did either. Unless they were lying.’

The Chief thumbed through the massive dossier which represented the hours and hours of interviews and statements, the lists of officers assigned to the investigation. ‘Okay, we’ll open it up further. Let’s see if any other states have anything on record. Reason is, to keep this on the boil I’m going to need more. We got a hell of a lot of men with their thumbs up their asses and we’ll have to open it up to the press.’

‘Shit! You do that and we’ll have our job cut out for us — you know what a circus starts when there’s a whiff of a serial killer on the loose.’

‘You’ve had it all to yourself, Bill, and you’ve drawn a blank. We got a fucking maniac out there and I can’t hold this back any longer. We’ll get in a psychological profiler.’

Rooney snorted, and the Chief rapped the desk. ‘Get all the help you can, Bill, and get it fast. If you and your team don’t get a result soon, I can’t let you sit on this — and you know it. Bring in that Helen Murphy’s husband. So far he looks like the only possible suspect and you need one.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You dumb? I’ll have to bring in more than a fucking profiler. Don’t you understand? I’m under pressure. That last kid might have been a hooker, but she was only seventeen years old. And Norman Hastings was, as you’ve laid out thick and clear, an upright citizen. You think his family don’t want a result? It’s not just old tarts. One dead bitch like the one you dug up from your pal Sparks can be put on ice. Hastings can’t. A pretty blue-eyed angel called Holly can’t. You with me?’

Rooney felt the carpet being tugged from under his feet. If they wanted a profiler then he’d get one. If they wanted Clint Eastwood they could have him too. Anything, so long as they didn’t give him the side-step just before he was due to retire. ‘I hear you loud and clear, Chief.’

‘Good — and, Bill, any other bright ideas you get, run them by me first. You started the ball rolling, now it’s out of control.’

Rooney got out fast.

Unfortunately, Bean was in his office sitting in his chair. It was a bad omen and Rooney yelled at him to shove his butt off. ‘Get onto one of those profilers — and by tonight. And
don’t
say one word. Then I want every man on this fiasco in the main incident room in one hour. We want Helen Murphy’s fuckin’ husband found and brought in.’

Bean coughed. ‘There’s another one.’

‘What?’ Rooney’s face flushed a deep puce.

‘I said there’s another one come in, from a Brian Johns, Santa Monica, details on your desk.’

Rooney reached over and picked up the fax sheet. Prostitute murdered 1992, found inside the trunk of a Cadillac, face and skull beaten. Mona Skinner, aged forty. Possible murder weapon: a blunt instrument, some kind of hammer.

Bean shut the door as Rooney thudded into his chair. It creaked ominously, the springs taking the strain of his eighteen stone. Mona Skinner was an ugly, square-faced woman with long, frizzy, bleached-blonde hair and her mouth was turned down in a thin scowl. Her mean, aggressive eyes stared back at Rooney with a ‘fuck you’ expression. She had been charged with soliciting more than nine times over a period of fifteen years. She had also served four years for assault and battery, and receiving stolen property.

Rooney leaned back and swivelled around. He was angry with himself for opening the can: the worms were certainly wriggling out and all over him. He ran a check to see if there were any links between Mona Skinner and the others. He struck lucky: Mona Skinner and Helen Murphy had both served time together at the same women’s prison, had once lived in the same motel. Rooney stepped up the order to find Helen Murphy’s husband who now became his main suspect for real.

Rosie ate the spaghetti, waded through the garlic bread and, filled to bursting point, heaved herself onto the sofa. Switching on the TV, she paused briefly to watch the news, then flicked on to find a game show.

‘They’ve still not found that guy that bumped off that local fella. You know what always amazes me?’

Lorraine was washing up. ‘No?’

‘Well, you know when they put all these ads out for people to come forward if they saw anythin’? That murder happened weeks ago. How do they expect anybody to remember? I wouldn’t be able to remember if I saw a guy in a metallic blue car this morning, never mind weeks ago.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Lorraine said, wiping round the sink. ‘I was working on a case once, and we were up shit creek without a paddle, and then this boy was hypnotized and he gave not only the car’s registration number, but about four or five others as well.’

Rosie switched channels again. ‘I wouldn’t have that done, you know why? Because it means they always got you in their power.’

Lorraine sat down beside her, her mind miles away. She thought again about the wallet, the man who had attacked her. She was vaguely surprised that he hadn’t been traced yet. She closed her eyes, conjuring up a mental picture of him, the way he had picked her up at the roadside, how he had wanted her to give him a blow-job in a public place. She saw him as clearly as if it had been yesterday. She remembered his hands: long, thin tapering fingers. Had he worn a ring? She concentrated hard, no, she was sure he had no ring, but then she saw his cuff, his jacket sleeve, and the cufflinks. She leaned forward, frowning in concentration, and then shook her head. It was no concern of hers, she had enough to think about, and besides, the further removed she was from it the better.

The following morning Lorraine went off to the gallery, pausing on the way to buy a newspaper. The headlines shrieked in big bold letters: POLICE HUNT SERIAL KILLER. Sitting in the gallery, she read the entire article, then folded the paper. It seemed almost comical that Captain Bill Rooney should be heading the investigation. From her own past experience with press releases, they had trouble on their hands. She could tell they were covering up, the old phrases they all used to churn out about ‘making headway’, ‘confident of an arrest’. But the biggest giveaway was the police request for any member of the public having further information to make contact. It meant they had zilch.