Passion Killers (13 page)

His eyes dropped to her bosom, which rose with another nervous sigh.

Alison felt like a scarecrow. When she flicked her hair behind her ears, a puff of dust flew out and a small twig fell free. She shook her head as discreetly as she could. Her clothes smelled of rubber and oil from the tyre she had changed, and more tiny particles of evidence were distributed about her hair.

Banham’s full attention was on the lovely Katie Faye, who sat opposite them looking fresh and pretty and smelling of expensive perfume.

On the table in front of Katie lay a transparent plastic evidence bag containing the stained, torn remnants of the g-string left in Shaheen Hakhti’s mouth. Katie pushed her knuckles against her mouth and stared at it. Then she looked up, and those huge, wideset blue eyes stared helplessly at Banham from under her fringe.

His voice was gentle as he asked, “I realise how difficult this is for you, but do you think this is one of the g-strings from the club you worked in?”

Katie swallowed hard and nodded. “They look the same.”

“There’s an initial on this pair. We think it may be an S. Would that be S for Susan?”

Katie’s face crumpled. She squeezed her lips together, then nodded again.

Banham turned to Alison. “Could you take these next door now?” he said. Crowther and Isabelle were with Olivia Stone in the next interview room.

As Alison stood up, he gave his full attention to Katie Faye again.

Crowther placed the evidence bag containing the knickers in front of Olivia. “Could they be the same ones you wore during your stint in that Scarlet Pussy Club?” he asked.

Isabelle was surprised to see Olivia blush as she stared at the knickers. She nodded. “They’ve got that same cheap, shiny finish...” She paused and swallowed, then blushed again. Her voice was barely audible as she continued, “Even though they’re so filthy and... bloodstained.”

“There’s an initial,” Isabelle said. “It looks like an S – for Shaheen, perhaps? Did you each write your initials on your own?”

Olivia shook her head. “We didn’t use our names. We were only eighteen, but we weren’t stupid. We didn’t want to leave behind anything that said we’d ever worked there. We all used pseudonyms.”

The perfectly kept hands with long manicured nails rubbed the base of her neck. “There was a big bag of those g-strings in the dressing room.” She shook her head. “Well, the tip we changed in.” She seemed to grow distressed. “Susan was in charge. She told us to take two pairs each and write a name, or an initial, on them. We took them home with us and washed them ourselves.” Her bosom heaved again, and her eyes began to fill up. She blinked the tears back and went on, “To be honest I really don’t remember what names we were using then. We changed them a few times. I do remember Theresa was called Cherry, for a while anyway. I can’t remember the others, though.”

“Not even your own?” Isabelle asked sharply.

She blushed again. “Katie and I did a double act. Sometimes I was Candy Floss and sometimes she was. I don’t think either of us knew or cared.”

“What was the other called?” Crowther asked.

Olivia paused. “Strawberry,” she said after a few moments. “That was it. Strawberry.” She gave Crowther a quick, nervous frown.

“But which was which?” he insisted.

“They were interchangeable. It didn’t seem important.”

“But you said you kept your own g-strings and initialled them,” Isabelle pushed. “What initial did you mark on yours?”

Olivia lifted both her hands. “You know, I really can’t remember,” she said.

When Banham walked back into the incident room, Isabelle was sitting on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, swirling the froth of her over-sweetened cappuccino with a straw and sucking the toffee toppings from it.

Crowther was at the next desk, on the phone to Penny about the forensic tests.

Alison was feeling desperately in need of a shower, but for a moment she forgot how embarrassed she’d felt, looking like a scarecrow in front of the lovely Katie Faye. She was almost sorry for Isabelle, sitting next to the man she wanted, watching him engrossed in another woman. Alison knew just how she felt.

She couldn’t work out whether her dislike of Katie Faye was jealousy or copper’s instinct. For the time being she decided to keep her feelings to herself.

“OK, what have we got?” Banham asked.

“Ask Know-All Col,” Isabelle said sourly. “He’s got everything.” She uncrossed her legs, jumped down from her desk and threw her paper cup in the bin.

Crowther’s nickname had been Know-All Col since he first joined the force. His connections in the East End meant he always knew the right person for the job; in fact he seemed to have useful contacts just about everywhere, and made a point of letting everyone know he had.

He replaced his phone on the cradle. “Fax coming through from forensics,” he told Banham. “This morning’s DNA test on the hair won’t be back until tomorrow morning, but...”

“Yes, we know,” Isabelle said loudly. “They normally take three days. Penny is doing you a favour!”

Crowther flicked an irritated glance in her direction but made no comment. “A few more notes from SOCO,” he said, pulling the papers from the fax machine and handing them, still warm, to Banham.

Banham scanned the notes. “There was another letter beside the S on the g-string. It’s very faint. Penny couldn’t make it out – it could be an H, a B, a P, an F, or possibly an R.”

“Rogers,” Alison said immediately. “Susan Rogers.”

Isabelle shook her head. “That was her real name. Olivia said they used their stripper names to mark their g-strings.”

Alison looked at Banham. “Katie said they used their own names.”

The room went quiet.

“Isabelle, get the file out on Ahmed Abdullah’s murder,” Banham said. “If the knickers are still there in the evidence bag, check if there was an initial on them. We’re getting somewhere now!”

The large gin and small valium Theresa had given her mother with her cornflakes had done the trick. She was still in the bedroom, snoring like a donkey in labour. Bernadette, thanks to another valium, was fast asleep in the living room.

Theresa still wasn’t taking any chances. She crept around the tiny flat in stockinged feet. She wasn’t proud of herself, but what choice did she have? She hadn’t been able to find a babysitter, and if she’d left her mother in charge, the old bag might have given Bernadette a good clout.

While they were both still asleep there was time to get rid of the videos. But where to hide them?

She was dead tired herself, hadn’t slept a wink since Brian came out of jail. She decided to have a coffee while she turned over a few ideas.

She picked up the kettle and filled it with water, gazing out of the window but seeing nothing. They had planned all this for years, she and Brian; it had kept them going during the long prison years. They would ask Olivia and Katie for a lump sum of money to give them a new start, then move away, out of London, to somewhere quiet and pleasant. But Kenneth Stone had decided to pull the plug; he’d come to the flat, ranting about all the money he’d paid out over the years, and declaring that they wouldn’t get another penny out of him.

But they’d earned that new start. Theresa didn’t enjoy resorting to blackmail, but if it was the only way, that’s how it had to be. It wasn’t as if anyone would get hurt; Katie was happy to give them the money, and Ken had plenty even if his mean streak had come out. And they’d all get their videos back, and the sordid episode would finally be over.

At least, that’s what Theresa had thought.

But now everything had changed. Shaheen and Susan had been murdered, and in a way that meant it had to be connected with the other dreadful business.

She plugged the kettle into the wall, and rinsed a breakfast cup from the table.

The detective had shown her the g-string that had been left on Shaheen’s body. It was disgusting – smeared with Shaheen’s blood and goodness knew what else. Theresa shuddered. It meant the murderer had to be someone who knew how Ahmed had died, so it could only be someone who had been there that night. She couldn’t believe Brian was capable of killing someone, but prison did change people.

Besides, who else could have known? And where did they get the g-string? It was identical to the ones they all used to wear. Seeing it had brought back so many memories. They had each written their name or initials on their own, so they didn’t muddle them up. The detective had said there was an S on that one: Susan? Shaheen?

But hadn’t they used their stripper names or initials, rather than their real ones? Hers was Trixie. It was Cherry at first, because of her red hair, but Ahmed changed it to Trixie because he said she was good at turning tricks...

She put her hand on the kettle. It was still cold; she had forgotten to turn it on. She flicked the switch nervously, telling herself to get a grip; she had a disabled child and a drunken mother to care for. The detective had told her that by lunchtime she would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance; she would be safe, and no one would hurt her.

But she had to dump those videos before it was too late.

The question churned round and round her brain: who knew they killed Ahmed?

Was she missing something here? As the years had gone by, Brian had grown to hate Shaheen. She had caused the problem in the first place, and had simply run away, leaving the others to care for her and Bernadette.

But Brian would never hurt Susan. She had been a good friend to them both; she had even visited him in prison, and was always kind to Bernadette.

She opened the cupboard and felt around on the top shelf for the jar of Nescafe. As she prised the top off the jar, a sudden thought struck her: Ken Stone. He used to go to the club; he was certainly a nasty piece of work. But did he know the truth about Ahmed’s death? And why would he want to avenge him?

She spooned coffee into the chipped mug. If not Ken, then who? Could there be someone else, someone she didn’t know about, someone who held a grudge and had waited until Brian came out, to put the blame on him and get even? She poured the boiling water over the coffee granules, pulled out a plastic chair and sat at the table. Ahmed had a daughter... No. She was in America, and she hadn’t even come to the funeral. She’d sold the club about six years ago; why would she reappear now?

A half-eaten bowl of cereal, a bottle of gin and a brown teapot full of cold tea cluttered the table. She picked up the overflowing ashtray and tipped its contents in the bin. The milk hadn’t been put back in the fridge, but it smelt OK. She poured some into her mug, leaned her elbows on the table and sipped the hot coffee.

Then she sat bolt upright. Suppose Brian told the police that the blackmail was her idea... No. He cared for Bernadette too much. He wouldn’t play such a dirty trick.

Would he?

At first she didn’t hear the quiet knocking. Brian knocked quietly; he knew not to wake anyone who might be still sleeping. She put her mug down and went to open the door.

She hardly had time to register recognition or surprise. A gloved hand grabbed at her face, covering her mouth. Strong fingers squeezed her cheekbones, pushing her back into the kitchen. Her back thumped against the wall by the table, sending crockery crashing to the floor.

Something cracked, and a volcano of pain erupted inside her head. She fought for breath and tasted the nauseous slime of blood as it ran up her nose, and down into her throat. She clawed her assailant’s hands to relieve the pressure, but it was useless; she was no match for the other person’s strength. She was lifted off her feet by that vice-like hand over her face, and her head slammed hard against the wall behind her. Everything exploded into stars, but she fought to keep her eyes open, pleading with them, but in vain.

The attacker smiled. That was when she saw the knife, glinting in the light from the window. She sent a last prayer to her God as her assailant turned her round and the razor-sharp blade touched her throat. As it entered her neck and ripped into her artery she heard a noise like tearing paper. Then, in slow motion, she saw the bright red blood arc like water from a garden hose. It puddled on the blue plastic table cloth and splashed the surrounding walls and floor.

She wasn’t conscious as the knife slit across the rest of her freckled neck, or as the intruder released her lifeless body and let it slump across the table.

Or when the killer’s gloved hands dug into a pocket and pulled out a red g-string.

Banham was still waiting on reports, and decided to take a very late lunch break. He was still getting the engaged tone on Lottie’s phone; she lived less than five minutes away, so he picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and decided to pay her a visit.

Everything was moving along as it should. Theresa McGann had rung to say she was back in her flat with her mother and daughter. Katie Faye had just phoned too; she had arrived safely back at the Stones’ house, and Olivia was there with her children. Judy Gardener would take good care of Kim Davis.

So he was content to leave the station for an hour or so. It was half term, so Madeleine and Bobby would both be at home.

He turned into the small side road and saw Bobby sitting on the wall outside the house eating a sandwich. He pulled up beside him and lowered the window. “Where’s your mum?”

The boy shrugged. “Inside, on the phone. She’s always on the bloody phone.”

Banham chose to ignore the language. He stepped out of the car and flicked the lock.

“Tea’s going to be late again,” Bobby added sulkily.

A large football sat in the gutter just in front of the car. “Want to play footy?” Banham asked his nephew.

That cheered the boy up. They kicked the ball around for a few minutes, then Bobby shouted, “Where’s Alison?”

“At the station,” Banham replied. “Working.” He took aim, missed the ball, then made contact and sent it in Bobby’s direction.

“Are you going to marry her?”

“You always ask me that,” Banham said. “And the answer’s always the same. She’s my sergeant, not my girlfriend.”

Bobby stopped dribbling the ball and looked up at Banham. His mouth shaped itself into a crooked grin. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes deadpan and his tone far too grown-up. “Like I’m supposed to believe you don’t fancy her knickers off.”

Banham was shocked. “Hey, you watch your mouth. I don’t know where you picked that expression up, but don’t use it to me. Or your mum for that matter. Especially not in front of your sister.”

He picked the ball up and walked toward the house. Bobby followed.

“That ain’t nothing,” the boy protested, right behind his uncle. “Mum says it all the time, on the phone.” He went into a bad impersonation of a sexy woman. “Do you fancy my knickers off?”

Banham stood still and turned to look at Bobby, at a loss for something to say.

“That’s what she says,” Bobby insisted, hands held wide.

A penny began to drop in Banham’s head.

“Wait there,” he said to Bobby. “Like your mum said. Sit on the wall. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“It’s cold out here. I want to come in.”

“In a minute. I need you to be the man of the family and wait there for a bit. OK?”

“OK,” Bobby agreed reluctantly.

Banham pushed open the front door and stood for a moment outside the lounge. His sister was talking on the phone, and he could hardly believe the stuff she was coming out with. So that was why the phone was constantly engaged – and that was where Bobby had picked up his colourful way with words. He knew her ex had missed some of the children’s maintenance payments, but he hadn’t realised Lottie was so desperate for money. He had a sudden urge to hit Derek hard for leaving his children wanting.

He opened the kitchen door. Madeleine was sitting on the floor, dressing her favourite doll for bed, and changing its nappy. The thought of this little innocent hearing her mother on the phone tore at his heart. He stood quietly in the hall, and when Lottie replaced the receiver he put his head round the door – just in time to hear the phone ring again.

Olivia Stone was in the kitchen peeling vegetables, and Katie Faye was blending fruit into a smoothie. Katie wore a comfortable grey tracksuit and house slippers, and Olivia had changed into trousers and a sweater.

Ken Stone was sitting at the kitchen table slurping from a large wineglass of ginger wine and port. Beside him on the table was a bottle of each. “Are we ever going to get any lunch?” he demanded petulantly.

Olivia didn’t answer. She glanced nervously at Katie and ran the tap over the colander of peeled carrots.

“I don’t even get an answer to a question now,” Ken snapped. “No one answers me in my own bloody house.”

“You don’t deserve an answer. You’re drunk.”

“I am not bloody drunk!”

“I’ll make some coffee,” Katie said peaceably, reaching for the cafetière.

“Oh, that’s right, side with your friend,” he scoffed. “One harridan in the house was bad enough. Now I’ve got two.”

“Stop it, Ken!” Olivia snapped. “Insult me, if you must. I’m used to you having too much to drink and behaving like a pig. But leave Katie out of it.”

Katie shook her head warningly, but Olivia had reached breaking point. “There’s a lunatic out there, for Chris sake,” she shouted. “Two of our friends have been murdered. And there are police at the bottom of the drive following our every move.” She looked at Ken, a little fearful, but he didn’t shout back as he normally would. He was glaring at her, but for once he was actually listening. She started to cry. “I hate being prisoners in our own home.”

“Only because you have to stay in,” he said coolly. “You can’t go off with your toy boy.” He looked her up and down contemptuously.

Katie and Olivia exchanged glances. Katie turned away and filled the kettle.

“Oh, here we go again.” Olivia scrubbed her eyes with a tissue and swallowed back the sobs. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t play around. Don’t judge every one by your own shabby standards.”

Kenneth didn’t answer. He twisted the stem of his wineglass and stared at its contents. Then, moving so fast that she had no chance to escape, he stood up and grabbed Olivia by the throat, slamming her back against the corner of the kitchen unit. “The shabbiest thing I ever did was taking you on,” he yelled into her face. “This whole sordid business is your fault.”

“Ken, don’t,” Katie pleaded, trying to pull him back. “Please, Ken, come on, I’ve made some coffee.”

“Piss off out of it. This isn’t your row.” Ken elbowed her away.

“Stop it, for God’s sake!” Olivia pushed him away. “Ianthe’s next door doing homework, and Kevin will be back soon. I have to feed them.”

“Oh, yes, feed the children! Never mind the poor husband who pays for everything!”

Katie lost her temper. “Leave her alone,” she shouted. “You’ve already marked her face.”

Ken slapped Olivia across the face. She hit him back, but regretted it immediately as punches landed all over her head.

“Stop it! Leave her alone!” Katie shrieked, terrified that he would do her real damage.

Suddenly the kitchen door burst open. The sound of Ianthe screaming at the top of her voice stopped everyone in their tracks.

Ken let go of Olivia and sat down at the table. “All right, nothing to get upset about,” he said, careful to avoid Katie’s blazing eyes.

Ianthe ran to her mother and Olivia cuddled her close, fighting back tears. The front door slammed, and a moment later Kevin appeared in the doorway. Kenneth put out a hand and stroked his daughter’s arm. “It’s all right, darling. Your mother and I were only playing.” His smile reminded Katie of a crocodile she had seen in the zoo.

Kevin walked slowly up to the kitchen table and leaned across it until his face was less than an inch from his father’s. “Well, next time, play nicely,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ianthe and I are getting fed up with you.”

Ken shrugged. “Fuck off,” he slurred.

“Don’t talk like that in front of your daughter,” Olivia pleaded.