Passion Killers (17 page)

Olivia perched on the stool by the door. “I presume I’m allowed in,” she said.

Banham nodded acquiescence. “Why didn’t you tell me you visited Brian Finn in prison?” he asked Kenneth.

“I didn’t.” Kenneth narrowed his eyes angrily at his wife.

Banham folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. Alison stood by the table.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Olivia said. “They’ve got the records – times, dates, everything. It says clearly Mr K Stone and Mrs O Stone. I’ve seen them. You might as well admit it.”

“I didn’t visit him,” Ken said again.

“Do you want to get arrested for obstructing a murder enquiry?” Olivia said through gritted teeth. “Tell them, or they’ll arrest you again.”

“All right.” Ken threw his arms in the air. “I visited Brian Finn regularly in prison. Satisfied?”

“So why deny it?” asked Alison quietly.

“Oh, for Chrissake!” He slapped his forehead. “I’ve had a very long day and you’re trying my patience.”

“Three women have been murdered,” Banham said, battening down the urge to shout. “It’s my job to find out who did it, before he does it again. I don’t have time for patience.”

Ken’s gaze settled on Olivia’s cleavage. “I visited him because my wife is a whore, and had embarrassed me by making pornographic videos. I need to get them back. If they get into the public domain, my career is down the tube.” He glared at Banham. “Anything else?”

“Yes, as it happens. Why did you buy two skips of costumes at the Scarlet Pussy Club auction?”

Olivia’s head shot up. “I didn’t know that.” She looked at Banham. “I definitely didn’t know that.”

“What auction?” Kenneth said wearily.

Alison sighed. “Mr Stone, we have the receipts.”

“Then arrest me.”

“Ken, for goodness sake, just tell them.” Olivia’s voice sounded taut and stretched.

He took a step towards her. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“What happened to your wife’s face, Mr Stone?” Alison said.

Colour flooded Kenneth’s face. “Are you trying to set me up?” he snarled. “I’m telling you once and for all, I didn’t kill those women.” He flew at Alison, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the door. “Fuck off out of my house.”

Banham grabbed the shirttail, which was hanging out of his trousers and twisted him round. He grabbed his wrists and pulled them firmly behind his back as Alison pulled out handcuffs. She clicked them around Stone’s wrists as Banham recited the caution: “Kenneth Stone, I am arresting you for attempting to assault a police officer, and for withholding information that is vital in a murder investigation...”

Olivia started crying, and Katie and Kevin ran in to comfort her. While Alison marched Ken to the unmarked police car at the bottom of the drive, Banham stayed with the women. “He did that to your face,” he said to Olivia.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“I have told you. I walked into a door.”

Kevin and Katie Faye exchanged glances. Kevin said, “Mum, tell him what happened.”

Olivia shook her head.

“You tell him, Auntie Katie.”

Katie looked nervously at Banham, then lowered her gaze.

Banham pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed Olivia a card. “If you change your mind and want to press charges, just give me a call.”

“Will you let him go?” she asked anxiously.

“We’ll keep him overnight, at least.”

“Mum feels nervous when Dad’s not here,” Kevin said. “I have no idea why.”

“No need,” Banham assured them. “There are officers keeping guard twenty-four hours a day. If you go out, they’ll be right with you. And you can call me any time, night or day.”

The women see med to relax a little. Time to leave, Banham thought. But something held him back. “Can I have a private word with you?” he asked, with a quick glance at Kevin.

“It’s all right, don’t mind him,” Olivia said. “What is it?”

“Your stripper names? Have you remembered who was who?”

Olivia answered quickly. “Honestly, we can’t. I think I was Candyfloss and Katie was Honeysuckle.”

“Honeysuckle?” That was a new one on Banham.

“Wasn’t it the other way round?” Katie said.

“What about Strawberry? One of you was Strawberry, isn’t that right?” Banham said.

“I don’t remember,” Katie said. Olivia shook her head. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to piece things together. If you do remember, you will call me?” He handed another card to Katie. “Any time. Night or day.”

He turned to find Alison standing in the doorway. Her arms were folded across her chest, and the black flecks in her eyes shining.

“Are you OK?” Banham asked as they walked down the gravel driveway.

“I’m fine. Stone reeks of alcohol.”

“We’ll leave him in a cell to sober up. Interview him later, even in the morning.”

“Good. That gives us time to visit Lottie. Shall I call her and say we’ll pop by?”

“No point; she’ll be on the phone. We’ll just turn up.”

It was seven-twenty by the time Alison had negotiated the rush hour traffic. The low hanging branches in Cherry Tree Walk had again caught the paintwork on the roof of her car, and after they parked in Lottie’s street she examined it for damage.

There was an excited squeal as seven-year-old Madeleine spotted her Uncle Paul, and clattered down the street to greet him in her mother’s high-heeled shoes. She carried a doll under one arm and a burger in the other hand; between those and the oversized shoes, Alison was afraid she might fall over.

Banham obviously thought the same. He ran to meet her and scooped her into his arms. From one pocket he pulled a handkerchief, which he used to wipe the lipstick covering her mouth. From the other he took a packet of chocolate raisins, and offered them to her. Madeleine struggled out of his arms and sat on the edge of the pavement, discarding the burger and emptying the sweets all over her lap.

“It’s too cold to sit out here,” Banham said, throwing Alison an anxious look. “Let’s go indoors.”

“Mummy says we’re to eat our tea out here, then play out until bedtime,” the little girl told him.

“Where’s Bobby?” Alison asked.

“Round the corner, playing football,” Madeleine answered through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Who with?”

“Shane and Leyton, I think.”

“Come on.” Banham held out a hand. “Let’s go and find him.”

The look on his face told Alison it was all he could do not to explode.

She waited till they had turned the corner, then walked up the path. The front door was on the latch.

“Lottie?” She put her head round the lounge door just as Lottie replaced the phone on its cradle. “Hi. The front door was open, so I came in out of the cold.”

“Is Paul with you?” Lottie sounded wary.

“He’s playing football with the children.”

Lottie looked sheepish. “Do you want some tea? Or something stronger?”

“Tea’s fine. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

The small, compact kitchen was decorated with children’s drawings in brightly coloured crayon. On the fridge door was one of a green pin man marked
Uncle Paul,
and beside that a pink pin woman, holding a telephone. That one was labeled
Mummy.

“You have observant children,” Alison said casually.

“I’ve got a telephone job at the moment,” Lottie said, reaching for the teapot. “I need a job I can do at home.”

Alison looked Lottie directly in the eye. “Tell me to mind my own business if you want, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I need a job I can do at home,” Lottie insisted. “Derek owes me back maintenance. I need to earn some money.”

“I understand,” Alison said, covering Lottie’s hand with her own. “But – telephone sex?”

“It’s well paid.”

“And dangerous. Who know what it might lead to?”

“What do you know about it?”

“Lottie, we’re detectives. We see things. And Paul cares so much for you. He worries terribly, you know, about you and the kids.”

Lottie banged the milk jug on the worktop. “It’s none of his business.”

“Perhaps not. It’s even less mine, but I’m still concerned about you. Thanks, but I don’t take milk.”

“You’re too thin. You shouldn’t diet.”

“I’m not dieting. I’m allergic to milk. Look, Lottie, can I talk to you, in confidence?”

Lottie looked at her and her face softened. “Sure.”

“We’re on a very nasty murder case. The killer has tracked down a group of women who worked together nineteen years ago, in a strip club. They were just students at the time, and they needed money. But the job didn’t stop at stripping. The girls got involved in pornographic videos, and now it’s led to blackmail. It was all nearly twenty years ago, but three of the women have been murdered, and the other three are living in fear. That all started because they all needed a job that earned them quick and easy money. They all thought the sex trade would provide it.”

“What’s the motive? Paul always says there has to be a motive,” Lottie said. “Find that, and it will lead you to the killer. Don’t they reckon that in two out every three cases the victim knows the killer?” She passed Alison her mug of black tea.

They were going off the subject. But Lottie was right. “You’ve got it,” she said. “We’re stuck on motive. Maybe that’s the key.”

She shook her head as Lottie offered her a tin of rich tea biscuits.

“What about the other three women?” Lottie suggested.

Alison laughed. “You should be my twin, not Paul’s. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Must be a woman’s mind. We’re devious.”

“And you’re changing the subject. We were talking about you. Listen, I think I might have a solution for you.”

“I won’t take money from Paul!”

“No, of course not. But surely you’ll accept a loan.”

“How can I pay him back if I give up the job?”

“That’s easy. Derek owes you big time – and that’s something Paul can take care off. He’ll enjoy going to see him, and he’ll make sure he pays up. Then you can pay Paul back.”

Lottie looked dubious.

“Think of the children, Lottie.”

For a moment Alison thought she had won, then Lottie shook her head.

“OK. If you won’t take a loan from Paul, how about from me?”

“You?”

“Yeah.” Alison winked. “Then I get to have a go at Derek. Am I allowed to punch his lights out?”

Lottie smiled. “OK, you win.” She laughed. “It’s a crap job anyway. Though I was getting good at it, especially with the older men.”

“So if I need help getting someone to fancy me, I can come to you?”

“You certainly can. I’ve learned all the tricks of the trade.”

“You didn’t talk to anyone with a fetish for red g-strings by any chance?”

“No. There was someone with a thing for older strippers, though.”

Alison’s antennae were suddenly on alert. “You haven’t got that on tape, have you?”

“Of course. I have to tape everything. I get paid per call. But I’d die if Paul heard me.”

“He won’t. You have my word. I’ll listen to it myself, and if it’s no use, I’ll return it. Or destroy it.”

“Return it, please,” Lottie said with a grin. “I haven’t been paid for it yet. Are you two staying for supper?”

“That would be nice – but we’ll have a takeaway, and my treat. You and I can fetch it while Paul puts Bobby and Madeleine to bed.”

Lottie went to get her coat. Alison went in search of Banham, who was playing football with the children.

“Sorted,” she told him. “I’m lending her the money. Better for her pride. You get the job of sorting Derek out. If you think you might hit him, maybe better let me.”

“He deserves a smack.”

“Yes, I know. I want to do it.”

“Uncle Paul, it’s your kick off,” Madeleine shouted from across the street. She had joined in the football wearing her mother’s shoes.

Banham walked over and picked her up. “It’s bedtime. I’m going to tell you your favourite story – Cinderella and her Fairy Godmother.”

Alison couldn’t help noticing Madeleine looked just like him.

“I wish Mummy had a fairy godmother,” Alison heard the little girl say to her plastic doll.

“She has,” Banham answered, with a glance over his shoulder at Alison.

Madeleine’s little eyes lit up. “Will she make Mummy’s dreams come true?”

“Yes.”

“And will we have lots of money, and be able to buy school shoes for Bobby, and nappies for Molly-Dolly?”

“Oh, yes,” Banham assured her, taking the shoes from her and tucking her feet under his jumper as he carried her up the path.

“And do fairy godmothers only grant wishes to people who are good?”

“That’s right.”

Bobby slouched up, his football under his arm, scowling to make sure they all knew he was too old for that silly stuff.

“No wonder we haven’t got any money,” Madeleine said. “Mummy is always saying bad words.”

Lottie was standing on the doorstep. Alison lowered her gaze as Banham locked eyes with his sister.

Then Lottie said, “Mummy isn’t going to say bad words ever again.”

Banham had been awake most of the night tossing thoughts around in his mind. He got up early, and rang Alison.

“Heather’s doing the post mortem on Theresa McGann this morning. I’d like you to come with me.”

There was a silence. Then, “What about Ken Stone?” she asked.

“We’ll give him a bit more time to cool down.”

“OK. Um... you’re sure about the post mortem, guv?”

He wasn’t, but had no intention of admitting it.

The mortuary technician pulled open the cold-drawer containing Theresa McGann’s body. Her name was written on a label tied to her waxy white toe. As she was wheeled to the metal table in the middle of the room, Banham saw a look of concern pass between Alison and Heather Draper, the pathologist.

He felt in his pocket for the three clean handkerchiefs he had brought with him. He was determined to see this through.

The nauseating smell of disinfectant mixed with dead flesh suddenly hit his nostrils. He stared hard at the walls. He was coping. If he got through this, he would have made another leap forward. Maybe next time he would be able to look at a female corpse and not be reminded of his own tragedy. Sometimes he still believed that he’d come home and find Diane cooking supper, and Elizabeth, now eleven, doing her homework. At other times the memory of that tiny broken head hit him so hard the pain made him want to cry out.

Something touched his arm. “Are you all right, guv?” Alison asked.

He managed a nod.

Heather Draper shook her head. “It’s not imperative that you’re here,” she told him gently. “I’ll have the report on your desk by lunchtime.”

He hesitated, but he had made a promise to himself. For better or worse he was staying put.

“Make sure you get the mouth and broken teeth from all angles,” he said to the exhibits officer.

The officer nodded, and moved in closer to video the wounds on Theresa’s mouth. After a minute he stepped back. Banham felt in his pocket for handkerchiefs again as the cutting and the drilling and dissecting began.

He kept his eyes pinned on Theresa’s mouth, frozen ajar and smeared with stale blood, but he was sickeningly aware of a sound like a nail being dragged across a television screen, which he knew was the stomach being cut open. He could see Heather out of the corner of his eye. She lifted the skin and went in with gloved hands to examine the contents. Banham forced himself to concentrate on why he had come. He now had a good idea who the killer was, but he needed evidence. And he hoped it might be here.

“I’m not sure I could eat anything,” Katie Faye said, watching Kevin dish scrambled egg and tomato on to her plate.

“You must try, Auntie Katie.”

“I expect they’ll let Daddy out this morning,” Olivia said brightly.

Ianthe had been tucking heartily into her breakfast. Now she looked up at her mother and stopped chewing.

“Do they have to?” she asked Katie.

“He’s frightened, darling. He didn’t mean to hit Mummy. He won’t do that again.”

“Come off it. He does it all the time,” Kevin protested.

“He hits me and Kevin too,” Ianthe said. “I hate him.”

Katie looked at Olivia. She shook her head. “They’re exaggerating.”

“We’re not,” said Kevin.

There was an awkward silence. Katie fiddled with her food, then threw her fork down. “Come outside a minute,” she said to Olivia.

Olivia followed her into the lounge. Katie closed the door and leaned back against it, folding her arms across her figure-hugging lilac roll-neck sweater. “What’s going on, Liv?”

“You’ve never been married. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think. Kevin and Ianthe are my godchildren; I have a responsibility to them. If Ken’s been hitting them you should have told me.”

Olivia slumped on to the sofa.

“Look, it’s pretty obvious that whoever killed Susan and Shaheen and Theresa knows what happened to Ahmed.” She watched Olivia. “That really narrows things down. If Ken has a violent streak, you have to tell the police. Come on, Olivia, you must see you’re putting all our lives in danger.”

Olivia looked away. “My marriage is none of your business.”

“It’s very much my business if my godchildren are getting hurt and my life is at risk.”

“Kevin stands up for us. He’s bigger than Ken now – he makes him back down.”

Katie stared at her in disbelief. “Olivia, he shouldn’t have to do that! He’s only eighteen.” She narrowed her eyes. “How long has it been going on?”

“It comes and goes. He thinks I had an affair.”

“Did you?”

Olivia picked up a packet of menthol cigarettes from the table and shook one free. She pushed it into the side of her swollen mouth, and lit it with the heavy onyx lighter on the coffee table. “No. Marrying Ken put a stop to all that. I’m not a slag, Katie, whatever he thinks.”

Katie perched on the arm of the sofa and put her arm around her friend. “Livvy, I know it’s hard. Deep down you still love him, but he can’t be allowed to get away with this. You have to tell the police he has a violent streak.”

“It would ruin his career.”

“He’s ruining your life! And Ianthe is terrified of him. He’s a bully, and I can’t understand how he’s got such a hold over you all. Ianthe will never trust men, and Kevin will become aggressive himself. And if he keeps getting away with it, he’ll only get worse.”

Olivia dragged hard on the cigarette, blew the smoke out and took another deep puff.

“Olivia, I’m sorry, but I’m not letting this go on. Here’s the deal: either you tell the police Ken did that to your face, or I will.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Olivia sat bolt upright.

“So you do it.”

Olivia ground the end of the cigarette into the ashtray.

“I mean it, Livvy. There’s too much at stake here.”

Olivia rubbed the back of her neck. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just... He’s my husband, Katie. I can’t let myself believe he’s a...” She swallowed hard. “OK. I’ll talk to the police. But don’t be surprised if he kills me.”

“Brave girl,” Katie said gently. “I’ll come with you if you like.”

“No, I’d rather go alone. I’ll have to do it before they release him or I’ll lose my nerve. I’ll go this morning.”

After Heather Draper had examined the cornflakes, milk, and fruit juice Theresa had consumed for breakfast, she moved to the wound across the throat. Again Banham nodded to the exhibits officer, and the DC moved in with his video camera and photographed the wound from every possible angle.

“The pattern is the same as in the other two victims,” Heather said, pointing to the crusted, blackened blood on the neck. “Same shape, same depth. I’d stake my reputation he used the same weapon.”

“Which we haven’t found,” Alison added.

“You’re looking for a knife about nine inches long,” Heather told her.

“What about any residue on the wound from the knife?” Banham asked her.

“Yes, I was going to mention that,” Heather said. “The grit in this wound is consistent with what I found on the last victim, but not the same as the first one. Penny, do you want to...?”

She raised a hand, and Penny Starr stepped forward, a flat utensil in her blue-gloved hand. She scraped carefully at the tiny particles of grit edging the neck wound and slid it into an evidence bag. “I’ll make this a priority,” she said. “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

Banham rubbed his hand across his mouth thoughtfully. “The weapon was hidden. After the first murder he hid it, then put it back in the same place after the second. I’ll bet he’s put it back again, and it’s there now.”

“Or she,” Alison said in a low voice.

“So wherever it was kept, it wasn’t very clean. Heather, do we know anything else, other than a nine-inch blade?”

“It was sharp, maybe new. A butcher’s knife, or one used for carving. Could be a good quality kitchen knife.”

“Could the grit be soil? Perhaps it’s been hidden outside, in a shed or a garage.”

“Crowther searched the Stones’ house,” Alison said, “but I didn’t see anything in the report about the garden. I’m trying to remember if they’ve got a garden shed.”

“You can see the garden from that long lounge,” Banham said. “I didn’t notice a shed. Just loads of different trees.”

“Very green and very well kept,” Alison added. “The front ones, at least.”

“I can test for unusual foliage,” Penny offered.

“Good idea,” said Banham. His mobile bleeped for attention, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Alison followed him into the corridor.

“That was the DCI again,” he said, flicking it closed. “Ken Stone’s solicitor is claiming police harassment, and the DCI wants him either charged or released before we have the press down on our heads.”

“We can only charge him with assaulting a police officer,” Alison said. “And we’ll have to bail him.”

“Drop me back at the station,” Banham said. “I’ll try to stall for time. You pick up Isabelle and take one of Penny’s team back to the Stones’ to look at the garden. But try not to be seen. It will take at least two hours to get a section eighteen search through.”

“Even if your name is Crowther?”

“I’ll get him on to it,” Banham said with a brief grin. “Start a search of the grounds anyway. See if there’s a shed, then scoop up some soil and foliage samples.”

Alison nodded. “Katie Faye is staying there.”

Banham stiffened. “What are you saying?”

“She’s a suspect. So is Olivia Stone.”

“I think you’re wrong. Those women are victims.”

They had reached the door. Alison pushed it open and took out her car keys. “But you admit yourself, you’re not very good at reading women.”

“I can read you.”

“Really? Go on, then. What am I thinking?” She smiled at him; that twinkle he found so attractive was back in her eyes.

But he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. Of course he didn’t.

Before he could think of something to say, she had climbed into her car and started the engine.

Judy had brought the large wooden skip of costumes down from the loft. She knelt on the floor on the landing, sorting through the feather boas, lacy body-stockings and other skimpy garments. Kim sat beside her, folding the costumes neatly and putting them into piles to go back in the skips.

“There are definitely no g-strings in here,” Judy said. “I thought I remembered seeing some, in the boxes Ken Stone passed to us.”

Kim finished folding a white lace maid’s apron and added it to the pile. It was a few seconds before she answered in a quiet voice. “There were. They were with the bag of different coloured tassels. I took that box to the school, remember? We used them in the
Chicago
number we did in the Christmas show. That box of costumes is still there, in the props wardrobe.”

“Are they the boxes you were going through yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Looking for red g-strings?”

Kim nodded. “But they weren’t the ones that we used when we worked at the club. We all took our g-strings home and washed them ourselves. We always did that, so we didn’t wear each other’s. That’s why we initialled them.”

Judy watched her carefully.

“So,” she continued a little louder, “the red g-strings in these skips wouldn’t belong to any of us.” She paused for a few seconds. “Because after we went home that night, we never danced again.” She laid the white aprons back in the skip and took a deep breath. “We went back to the club on the Monday, because we had agreed to turn up and make it look as if everything was normal. But we knew it wasn’t. He was dead, and the club would be closed and we wouldn’t be dancing.” Her voice cracked. “Because he was dead. We’d killed him.” She took a deep breath and seemed to calm down a little. “So I didn’t bring my g-strings with me to the club. I left them at home, and I assumed the other girls had too.”

“But you can’t be sure?”

“No.” She looked at Judy, and repeated, a little more loudly, “No. I can’t be sure.”

“So what exactly are you saying?”

“That the red g-strings in the costume skips weren’t the ones that belonged to us. “They wouldn’t have had our initials on them.”

“But there aren’t any red g-strings in this skip, are there?”

“There don’t seem to be, no.”

“And the ones left with the bodies did have initials on them.”

Kim couldn’t look at Judy. “Someone is trying to frame us.”

“Who?” Judy asked, struggling to keep her voice level. “Do you mean Ken Stone?”

“I just don’t know.”

“So what are you looking for?”

“Costumes. Our costumes, the ones we wore.”

Judy put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not following this,” she said, trying to stay calm.

“If I could recognise any of the costumes, I might be able to... But I can’t, because my memory’s shot to pieces by the drugs. And it’s so long ago.” She stood up and clutched at the banister rail. “The club was closed that night, when we came back to work,” she went on. “There was no work. The police were there, asking questions. So all our costumes were left behind. They had our initials on them–that’s what we did. If I could just see them again, I might remember who wore them, then I could check the initials. And I’d know who used what initial...”

Her voice trailed away and she began to tremble. Judy got to her feet and put a hand on her partner’s shoulder. “But you can’t, Sausage. It was so long ago. No one expects...”

“I was called Dusty Springfield, I think.” She knuckled her eyes like a child. She looks so tired, Judy thought. “But I can’t rely on my memory. Dusty. But I’m sure he called me Rusty sometimes. He hated me,” she ended, a sob in her voice.

“There’s a mix-up about Olivia and Katie’s names. You can’t clear that one up, can you?”

“You’ve asked me that already.” She ran her fingers through her hair and scratched her head. “Katie changed her name. Ahmed made some disgusting remark about her pubic hair tasting of candyfloss, so she changed it to Honeysuckle.” She nodded thoughtfully, as if she was pleased she had remembered. “That’s it. Olivia was Strawberry, and Katie was Candyfloss but changed to Honeysuckle. And we wrote our initials with Olivia’s red pen, and Olivia drew a strawberry next to her initial. Unless I dreamed it.”