Passion Killers (18 page)

“Red pen? Didn’t you say blue before?”

“Did I? Oh, I’m not sure. Yes, I think you’re right, it was blue. The costumes in the other skip are marked in red ink, but not with our initials. Someone else marked theirs in red.” She rubbed her temple. “It’s all a blur. I don’t remember any of us wearing the French Maid or the Bunny Rabbit costumes, and that’s all there is in that skip.”

Judy put her arm round her. “I’m going to make you some Earl Grey tea. You’re tired, Sausage, and I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

“I hate those police being outside spying on us. Can’t they leave you to look after me? You will, won’t you? Whatever happens?”

“Forget about them, Sausage. I will always look after you.” Her hand moved to cover her mouth. Kim was pale and thin, and that grey cardigan would have gone round her a dozen times. She ran her long fingers through her short brown hair, and looked around with nervous eyes before walking down the stairs. Judy threw the costumes back in the skip and followed her.

Crowther was out of his chair and heading for Banham as soon as he walked in the incident room. Banham didn’t let him get a word out. “Yes, I know,” he said to the young DC.

Crowther spread his arms defensively. “I haven’t said a word yet!”

Banham kept walking. “The DCI is on my case. Ken Stone’s brief is having a field day, and is going to take me to the complaints board. And you’ve heard a rumour about a sergeant’s job, so you’re telling me before anyone else can.”

“OK, guv.” Crowther held up his hands. “Just trying to help.”

“If you really want to help, get me a section eighteen for Alison and Isabelle, marked an hour ago. They’re on their way to the Stones’.”

“I’m on it, guv.”

“You didn’t notice a shed in the Stones’ garden, did you?”

Crowther shook his head. “There’s an orchard at the back of the garden. I walked through it. It goes on forever, but there ain’t no shed.”

Banham pushed out his bottom lip.

“There’s a small summer house,” Crowther offered. “I looked in there; just a couple of chairs and a few motoring magazines.”

That was something. Banham flipped his phone open and called Alison.

“Any danger of me knowing why ashed?” Crowther asked as Banham closed his phone.

“The PM has turned up some grit on the second and third victims, but not on the first. Looks like the weapon was hidden in the same place both times – probably outside.”

“Could it be a lock-up?” Crowther suggested. “The killer could have rented a garage.”

Banham stopped, and turned to look at Crowther. “Well done,” he said. “It could be. Let’s check Kenneth Stone’s personals, and see if there are any extra keys are on his key-ring. Then we’ll talk to him just once more before the DCI knows I’m back and makes us bail the bastard.”

A voice boomed across the room. “DI Banham!”

The DCI. For a moment Banham felt a child whose hand had been caught in the biscuit jar. Then to his relief his phone bleeped. He put it to his ear, giving the senior officer a polite nod. As he listened to the voice at the other the end his face broke into a broad smile. “We’ll be waiting for you,” he said, giving Crowther a triumphant thumbs-up. “Thank you, Olivia.” He closed his phone and beamed at the DCI. “Mrs Stone wants her husband charged with domestic violence and kept away from her and the kids. She’s on her way in to make it official.”

“Nice one, guvnor,” Crowther grinned.

“I’ll tell the boss we’re going to let him go within the hour. You can tell his brief the same. Then you get the pleasure of taking Mr Stone through to release him, and as he is claiming his possessions you re-arrest him for domestic violence. Meanwhile Alison and Isabelle are turning his garden over looking for a weapon. And we’ve now got another thirty-six hours to find it.”

Alison’s newly mended exhaust was dragging on the ground as the car bounced over the potholes of Cherry Tree Walk. Every few second’s stones flew from either side of the wheels, some hitting the windscreen. Isabelle was finding the experience highly amusing, which only served to wind Alison up further.

The police surveillance car was missing; one member of the team had driven Olivia Stone to the station. A solitary officer raised his hand in greeting as Alison drew the car to a halt. He pointed at the traffic cone reserving a space opposite the Stones’ driveway, but Alison shook her head and lowered the window.

“No,” she said to the young DC. “Katie Faye is in there with the children. We don’t want them to see us from the window – we’re still waiting for our search warrant.” She put the car in reverse and the wheels spun in a pothole, kicking up a stone which hit the paintwork. She cursed under her breath. “I’m parking under that bush by the wall. We’ll be out of sight there, from all sides of the house.”

The surveillance officer backed away, and for once Isabelle didn’t argue. She pulled blue forensic gloves over her hands picked up the black evidence bag from the floor. “You don’t like Katie Faye, do you?”

Alison revved the car noisily as she reversed, drove forward a few inches than back again, each time trying and failing to edge nearer to the wall. “
Like
has nothing to do with anything,” she said. “I don’t trust her, or Olivia Stone.”

“Nothing to do with the way our DI can’t take his eyes off the lovely Miss Faye?”

“Who told you that?”

“You did.”

Alison slammed her foot on the brake. The car was still sticking out at an angle. “Let’s just concentrate on the job, shall we?” Realising how badly she had parked, she started moving the car backwards and forwards again, but to no avail. “He’s a useless judge of women, you said that yourself.”

Isabelle said nothing.

“If he fancies her, that’s his lookout,” Alison added. She brought the car to a standstill and noticed Isabelle squeezing her lips together. “All right, I’m the world’s worst at parking. Don’t rub it in.”

Isabelle swallowed the laugh. “What are we looking for,
sergeant
?”

“Collect earth, foliage and stones.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll go round the back to check the summer house. If we’re seen, say we have a search warrant. Know-all Col is on the case, so I have no doubt we’ll have one soon.”

Alison opened the car door. “And you don’t like those women any more than I do.”

“I certainly don’t trust them.”

“Woman’s intuition.” Alison closed the door quietly. “Ken Stone isn’t the only suspect around here.”

“It’s not looking good for him,” Isabelle pointed out. She took a leap and landed lightly on top of the fence, then disappeared over the otherside, unhampered by her longblack coat, or the pink and mauve scarf knotted around her neck. She even managed to climb a fence looking gorgeous, Alison thought. As usual she had chosen practical clothes for the damp and frosty weather: khaki chords, brown flecked jumper over a thick green shirt, with her parka-style anorak over the top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a dull brown scrunchy, and on her feet she wore sensible brown walking boots. She would have loved to be naturally sexy and feminine, like the Katie Fayes and the Isabelles of the world, with tiny waists and button noses. But she preferred comfortable, sporty clothes, didn’t like make-up except for special occasions, and her favourite sport was self defence. No wonder Banham couldn’t take his eyes off Katie Faye.

But she couldn’t think about that now; she had a job to do. She was over the fence and standing in the driveway in a couple of seconds, and found herself face to face with Katie. The actress was wearing a sugar pink t-shirt tucked into ice-blue jeans, finished off with a thick black leather belt that accentuated her tiny waist.

“What are you doing, what’s going on?” she asked looking from Alison to Isabelle, who was already on her knees and had started shovelling dirt from the ground into a plastic evidence bag.

“We need to check the grounds. Just routine.”

“And you shouldn’t come out of the house,” Isabelle added. “It’s not safe.”

Katie looked uncertain. “I just came to see...”

Alison pressed home her advantage. “If you see someone in your garden, you should ring the number you’ve been given.” She pointed at DC Holt, now sitting on a tree trunk at the bottom of the driveway, a newspaper open on his lap. “No point having a policeman on guard if you don’t make use of him.”

Katie turned those enormous blue eyes on her, and Alison pretended to be taken in. “How are you?” she asked her.

“What do you mean, just routine check?”

Alison shrugged. “We’ve just been asked to collect some samples, and check on you. Are you alone here?”

“Not for long. Kevin has taken Ianthe to see her pony, but they’ll be back soon. And Judy and Kim are going to come over in a while, to keep me company.”

“Good.” Alison pointed at DC Holt again. “Denis Holt is watching the house, and Charlie Mitchell will be back as soon as Olivia has given her statement.”

Katie’s eyes wandered to Isabelle, clipping fragments from the base of the bush at the bottom of the drive.

“And I think you’ll find Kenneth Stone won’t be released just yet.”

Katie turned the vulnerable eyes on Alison again. “Thank you,” she said softly, with a grateful smile.

Alison was more than ever convinced Katie was putting on an act. From her own days in amateur theatre, she knew it was the tough ones who got the best parts; given the kind of success she’d had, Katie Faye simply wasn’t this vulnerable. “You’re welcome,” she said. “All part of the service. I’ll just go for a quick look round the back while we’re here.”

It took her less than three minutes to find the summerhouse and turn the whole place upside down. She found nothing incriminating.

Katie was still standing in the driveway when she came back through the garden gate.

As she reached the bottom of her drive and came within sight of her car, her mouth fell open. “Oh
fuck
!” she shouted, staring at her second flat tyre in two days. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Something else for the expense account,” Isabelle said, right behind her.

“The bloody thing’s only just out of the garage,” Alison said angrily, pointing her key at the boot to get the spare. “Thank God I got the last one fixed.”

A chuckle from a few yards away made her turn. DC Holt was mightily amused.

“That is way above the call of duty,” Isabelle said, failing to keep her face straight.

Alison chose to ignore the fun both DCs were having at her expense. “Tell you what, though,” she said. “I’m glad that I don’t do kitten pink t-shirts, arse-tight jeans and high heels.” She threw the spare wheel on the frosty ground and lifted the wheel brace and jack out of the boot. She flung Isabelle an angry glance. “Do something useful,” she snapped. “Go and collect some dirt from this side of the fence.” She gestured at a large bush that leaned, half in the road, and half in the Stones’ driveway. “To compare with the earth on the other side.”

Isabelle patted the earth below the bush. “Hey, this is newly dug.” She prodded the bush. “You know, I thought this didn’t look real last time we were here. It’s too green for this time of the year.”

DC Holt put in his fourpennyworth. “It was only planted a few days ago. They wanted a bit more privacy.” He carried on reading his paper, and Alison and Isabelle looked at each other. Isabelle put her hand on the base of the bush.

Alison stood up.

“It’s not very secure either,” Isabelle said.

“Holt? Over here,” Alison ordered.

The three of them dug down into the loose soil with bare hands and the small shovel, until Isabelle hissed, “There’s something down here, buried.”

Alison looked up the drive towards the house. Katie was nowhere in sight. By the time she looked back down Isabelle was dragging a bulky blue carrier bag from under the bush. She opened it and pulled out a long knife, then a dirty transparent plastic bag.

It was full of red g-string knickers.

The cuffs of Crowther’s new jeans were turned up so much he looked as if he was wearing knee-high socks. He wore a blue jacket dotted with tiny flakes of silver, which might or might not have been an attack of dandruff.

Crowther was flattered that Banham had given him the job of taking Olivia Stone’s statement. Where he came from, in the worst part of the East End of London, women often took a belting from their husbands when they stepped out of line. But it was something he hated. He treated women flippantly, but he liked them a lot. He’d sleep with them and move on, but he liked to think he made them feel good about themselves. He was old-fashioned that way; he looked after his girls, cherished and spoiled them, bought them good dinners, liked them to dress up nicely for him. He was first to admit he was a bit of a chauvinist, but he would never hurt a woman, and he despised men who did.

So this wasn’t about gaining brownie points for promotion. This was about the beautiful woman who was sitting opposite him, distressed, with a swollen, bruised face.

He placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her. “I’ve sprinkled chocolate flakes on the top,” he said. “It gives it that extra flavour. I hope you’re not watching your figure.”

Her full mouth stretched in an attempt at a smile. That told him what he needed to know – that he was winning her over. “I made it warm, not too hot, in case your mouth is tender.” He smiled. “It certainly looks it to me.”

“Thank you.” She smiled back. Even with one of those eyes puffy and shiny, she was a real stunner.

“I’m going to record this interview, just routine. No hurry and no pressure. Have your coffee first.”

Suddenly tense, she shivered and pulled her cardigan from the back of her chair. It was cerise cashmere trimmed with a fur collar the same colour. Crowther briefly wondered what animal it was supposed to be from.

He winked to reassure her.

“Can I smoke?” she asked.

“Course.” He took an ashtray from the drawer and put it in front of her.

She opened her bag and scrabbled around for her cigarettes and lighter. She laid them on the table, and Crowther picked up the lighter, waiting for her to put a cigarette in the side of her swollen mouth. When she did he lit it, and watched her blow the smoke out.

“You want to make a statement about the abuse you have suffered at the hands of your husband, Kenneth Stone,” he said, softening the formal words with an encouraging nod.

“It’s for my children,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them.”

“They’re afraid of him too?”

She paused. “Yes, they are.” Her voice broke slightly as she spoke. “He hits them as well.”

“He’s a violent man, isn’t he?”

She fought back the tears as she nodded agreement.

Crowther leaned towards her. “Was he violent when you first knew him?”

“No, not violent. But he’s always been jealous, and possessive of me.”

He tried to sound sympathetic. “When did he start to show his violent side?”

Olivia flicked nervously on the cigarette. “I can’t remember exactly. What will happen? Will he get a warning? Or what?”

“That depends,” he said gently. “He’s also a suspect in a murder enquiry.”

Olivia looked at him wide-eyed.

“Did he tell you he bought a skip containing red g-string knickers and a large quantity of sex videos at an auction when the Scarlet Pussy Club changed hands?”

She looked sheepish. “That was because... I made a video. We all did.”

“We know about that. Tell me about him. You met him there, at the club?”

“Buying those videos... He was trying to stop them getting in the wrong hands, that’s all. At the auction he bid for whole skips of stuff in the hope that the videos of me and Katie were in them.”

“But they weren’t?”

“No.” She flicked the cigarette again. “Kim was opening her dance school,” she told him. “The skips had costumes in them; he thought she would be able to use them for her dance productions. He passed the skips on to her.”

There was a knock on the door and Banham’s head appeared. Crowther turned the tape off and excused himself.

Banham quickly updated Crowther on what Alison and Isabelle had found. “It’s going to take a good twelve hours to check for DNA, or faded initials,” he said. “We can’t see any initials on pairs that we’ve just found, but there is a motif that looks like a strawberry. It’s being checked at the lab as we speak. So delay that interview with Olivia Stone any way you can. Tell her something urgent just came up, and you’ll have to ask her to wait. I want you to and Isabelle to have another crack at Ken Stone, and Alison and I will go for Finn. We’ll keep pushing at them. I think we’ve got the killer here, but until forensics turns something up, I don’t know which one it is.”

Finn was getting agitated. Gone was the nervous underdog; now Banham was seeing another side of this big man, and the undercurrent of anger running through him.

“If you’re not charging me, let me go. My kid needs me.”

“She’s with her grandmother,” Alison told him. “And you’re looking at another murder charge.”

“Where’s your evidence?”

“You’re strongly advised to co-operate and answer our questions.”

Finn sighed noisily. “I want to see a brief.” He raised his voice. “But I want out of here.”

“Why did Olivia or Katie change her name from Candyfloss to Strawberry?” Banham barked.

Finn shook his head. “It was Olivia. Ahmed called Olivia Candyfloss because he said she got everywhere. She didn’t like it, so she changed it. End of.”

“You’ve lost me,” Banham said. Alison threw him a despairing look.

Finn leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “She put herself about. First Ahmed, then me, and then Ken Stone came along. I wasn’t rich, so she dumped me and went off with Stone.” He shrugged. “No crime there. She was eighteen and beautiful.”

Banham’s phone bleeped. He checked the number of the incoming call and switched it off.