Stop Dead (36 page)

‘Thank you.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’

Geraldine sat on the stool and looked around the kitchen which was small but immaculate. The worktops were clear, four matching mugs stood in a neat line next to a polished kettle, and two identical saucepans stood on the hob, their handles exactly parallel. A row of metal kitchen implements hung on pegs by the sink, beside a row of sharp knives. Geraldine checked that none of the knives was missing, even though the victims had been battered, not stabbed; it was an automatic reaction. Everything was gleaming as though the kitchen had just been scrubbed.

With her back to Geraldine, the blonde woman switched on the kettle and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

‘How long have you shared a flat with Ingrid?’

‘What did you say you wanted to see her about?’ the girl answered with a question.

Her voice was oddly flat. As she shut the fridge she turned to face Geraldine for an instant, before her eyes flitted away. Something about the situation didn’t feel right, although Geraldine couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. She had experienced that sensation before, a feeling that she had seen or heard something significant, if she could only work out what it was.

‘I didn’t,’ she replied, smiling pointlessly because the woman didn’t look round.

It was odd how Ingrid’s flatmate had invited her into the flat, although she was apparently too shy to even look at her.

‘What’s your name?’

The woman didn’t answer. Instead she stretched out her arm to lift a large black handbag from the floor, still without turning round. Thankful that everything in the kitchen was polished and gleaming, Geraldine kept her eyes fixed on the woman’s reflection in the metal toaster, watching closely as the distorted image reached into the bag. Something moved in the reflection, glinting silver. As the woman spun round and threw herself across the room, Geraldine leaped from the stool. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of something flashing past the side of her head to crash down on the edge of the work top. She was trapped in a cramped kitchen with a homicidal maniac. Her mind raced as she registered what the woman was wielding. A hammer. It had struck the worktop with such force it made a dent in the surface, leaving scattered dark flecks. The blow would have crushed a human skull.

Ingrid brandished her weapon again as she turned to face Geraldine, her eyes glistening with frenzied triumph. Geraldine saw that the blonde hair had slipped to one side of her head, revealing dark hair beneath.

‘You won’t get me this time,’ Ingrid hissed.

She lunged forward, swinging the hammer above her head.

S
am hurried from the detective chief inspector’s office, stabbing at her phone as she made her way along the quiet corridor back to her own office.

‘This is Geraldine Steel. Please leave a message. For urgent calls please contact…’

Reg was a cold fish, as a rule, sitting at his desk working out strategies and calculating odds from the safety of his office. He rarely expressed emotion, but even he had seemed concerned about Geraldine.

Sam nipped into her office and collected a couple of constables who scurried after her, like children eager for an outing.

‘Where to?’ one of them asked as they left the building.

They were both smiling, pleased to be away from their desks, young and enthusiastic. At the sight of their grinning faces, Sam felt her tension dissipate. The sun was shining. Geraldine had gone to question a witness who might possibly turn out to be a suspect. There was no reason to suppose she might be in any more danger than any other officer out meeting the public. Besides, Ingrid was only a slip of a girl. Geraldine could take care of herself. Nevertheless, Sam ran to the car, urging her colleagues to hurry.

‘We’re going to Bounds Green,’ she told her companions as they set off. ‘Geraldine’s gone to question a suspect, and we’re going over there to check how things are going.’

‘Has she called for back up?’

‘No.’

The two constables exchanged a glance.

‘She’s not answering her phone,’ Sam explained.

‘Why not?’

‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

‘You don’t think anything’s happened to her, do you?’ one of the constables asked.

‘More likely her phone’s the problem, don’t you think?’ the other one pointed out.

Sam didn’t answer.

On the way she tried Geraldine’s phone again. There was still no answer.

‘Can’t we go any faster than this?’ she complained.

The constable accelerated to catch up with a queue at the next red light.

‘Where the hell do all these people come from? It would have been quicker to take the tube,’ she grumbled, even though she was aware that would have involved travelling into central London and out again on a different line. ‘We’re hardly moving. At this rate it’s going to take us an hour to get there.’

A lot could happen in an hour.

Unable to contain her disquiet, she called Reg and told him they were stuck in traffic. She wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or unnerved to hear that he had already notified the nearest station to send a patrol car to Ingrid’s flat. Evidently he too was worried that Geraldine wasn’t answering her phone.

‘I’m sure everything’s fine,’ he added, as though reading her mind, ‘but it does no harm to be cautious.’

They crawled along until the constable who was driving darted into a side turning and they made their way through a maze of side streets, avoiding the congested main roads.

‘Where the hell are we?’ Sam wanted to know.

‘At least we’re moving,’ he pointed out cheerfully and she scowled at him.

She tried Geraldine’s phone again. There was no answer.

It was a comfort to know that a local patrol car had been alerted and help would arrive imminently. But that wasn’t enough. If Geraldine was in trouble, Sam wanted to be there. They worked together, partners on the same team. Geraldine had only been in London for a few months but Sam thought of her as a friend, and she hoped the feeling was reciprocated. Besides which, Sam had questioned Ingrid just over a week ago. If Ingrid was the killer, and harmed Geraldine in any way, Sam would feel responsible.

‘Get back to the main road and put the siren on for God’s sake,’ she snapped.

‘Righto, sarge.’

Sam thought back to when she had first met Geraldine, and how distant her new colleague had seemed initially. It hadn’t taken Sam long to penetrate her diffidence and discover that Geraldine was lonely, living on her own in London where she knew no one. On the face of it her life was perfect. Having inherited family money she was buying her own flat in a select part of Islington, and she had a reputation on the murder squad for getting quick results.

‘You’re lucky to be working with Geraldine Steel,’ was the general response people gave when she had told colleagues about her new boss.

Few people appreciated how much Geraldine embodied the cliché of a successful career woman isolated in her private life. A failed relationship with a man who had unexpectedly left her for another woman after six years, followed by a succession of unsatisfactory affairs, had left her bitter and isolated. What made it worse was her discovery in her thirties that she had been adopted as a baby, leaving her feeling cut off from the people she had believed were her blood relatives. Although they had only been working together for just over a month, Geraldine had shared the secrets of her past with Sam, who appreciated her confidence. Out of such familiarity, friendships were forged. Geraldine trusted her. If anything were to happen to her, Sam would never forgive herself. She had met Ingrid. She should have spotted her as a suspect straight away. Now Geraldine might be in danger, and it was all her fault. She glared at the busy road ahead, frustrated with herself for not being there to help her friend, and angry with Geraldine for going out on her own.

Driving on blues and twos they made faster progress through the busy streets and finally arrived at their destination. A patrol car was parked outside number 26. Sam leaped from the car and saw two uniformed officers knocking on the front door of the building.

‘When did you get here?’ she yelled as she ran up the path.

‘We’ve been here about five minutes, but no one’s answering,’ a burly constable replied.

‘Oh shit. Let’s hope we’re not too late. Get that door open.’

‘But –’

‘Just get us inside.’

The constable glanced at his companion and then together the two of them kicked the door open with a resounding crash. They ran inside, Sam close on their heels.

‘It’s number 26a,’ she shouted and one of the officers put his shoulder to the door of Ingrid’s flat.

D
espite her terror, Geraldine couldn’t suppress a wild feeling of relief. At last they had tracked down the woman who had been carrying out the killing spree. Geraldine raised her arms to protect herself as, with a loud grunt, Ingrid raised the hammer again. This time Geraldine was ready. She dodged, at the same time clenching her fists together and punching up against her assailant’s arm as it descended, jabbing it sideways to deflect the blow. The hammer landed on the floor with a heavy thud. Ingrid was slight, but she was agile and surprisingly strong. If she had pressed on with her attack, she might have dealt Geraldine a serious injury. But she was distracted by her weapon. As Ingrid lunged to recover the hammer, Geraldine turned and fled.

She ran from the gleaming kitchen and raced along the narrow hallway to the front door, almost slipping on the polished floor. Ahead she could see the door was bolted, top and bottom. By the time she reached it, Ingrid would have caught up with her, hammer raised. Geraldine darted sideways into another room and shut the door, glancing around for a window. They were on the first floor, but she would be better off risking a few broken limbs than a caved in skull. She was in a pristine bedroom. On the bed a pillow lay precisely parallel to the top of the duvet cover which appeared freshly ironed. Looking around she noticed the paintwork on the window sill was faded and flaky, as though it had been scrubbed. Apart from that, the decor was flawless.

Before she had time to cross to the window, the door flew open. Flipping out her truncheon, Geraldine turned and braced herself for the next attack. There seemed little point in trying to reason with Ingrid. Geraldine’s heart was pounding, yet her mind felt unnaturally clear as she faced her assailant. She looked completely demented, blonde wig askew, dark eyes burning.

‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’ she shrieked.

Ingrid was shaking so violently, Geraldine wondered if she would be able to hang onto the hammer she was grasping, let alone wield it.

Ingrid’s scream sounded barely human as she charged forward, hammer raised. Even as she feared for her life, Geraldine registered the absurd sight of Ingrid’s blonde wig, precariously attached to the side of her head by a few hair pins, swinging crazily. Geraldine had to time her defensive leap just right. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed at her assailant, twisting her arm up behind her back until Ingrid was forced to surrender to the pressure of extreme physical pain. The timbre of her screams altered as her hammer dropped to the floor once more.

Panting, Geraldine snapped handcuffs on the woman, and shoved her onto the bed. Geraldine stepped back and leaned against the wall, her legs shaking from the shock of the attack.

‘Ingrid Tennant?’

All the fight seemed to have gone out of her assailant who lowered her head submissively. She didn’t answer.

‘Back-up is on the way, so you might as well stay calm now and co-operate. I know who you are. There’s no point in keeping up the pretence. You’re Ingrid Tennant, and Linda Harrison’s your aunt.’

It was easy to resume control with her assailant handcuffed. Ingrid nodded and sat passively while Geraldine tugged away her dishevelled blonde wig and spectacles. Shoulder length dark hair tumbled down in a straggly pony tail. Without her wig and glasses Ingrid resembled Linda Harrison more closely, despite her heavy make-up. Ingrid stared straight ahead, with the same sullen expression her aunt had worn. Geraldine was startled by the similarity.

The silence was broken by a sudden loud crash as the door to the flat was smashed open. Geraldine heard voices calling out her name.

‘In here!’

She kept her eyes fixed on Ingrid who didn’t appear to have noticed the fracas out in the hall. Two uniformed officers came trampling into the room, followed a moment later by Sam with a pair of constables at her heels.

‘Take off your filthy shoes, all of you!’ Ingrid yelled suddenly. ‘Take off your shoes. Take off your shoes,’ she shrieked. ‘Get out of my bedroom. This is my bedroom.’

She began to cry.

‘You could have rung the bell,’ Geraldine said quietly. ‘There was no need to break the door down.’

‘We thought – I thought –’ Sam stammered. ‘There was no answer –’

‘Get out of here, all of you, and Sam, call SOCOs to come and take the place apart, starting with those.’

Geraldine pointed at the wig and hammer lying on the floor.

‘There should be enough blood samples on there to confirm what Ingrid has to tell us. And there’s no need to look so stressed,’ she added firmly. ‘I had everything under control.’

She remembered the dented worktop and shuddered.

I
ngrid refused to speak on the journey to the police station where she emptied her pockets without a word, handed over her watch and shoes, listened to the custody sergeant’s questions and submitted to being searched. She gave her finger prints and DNA and even submitted to a medical examination, all without breaking her silence.

‘Maybe a few hours in the hotel will loosen her tongue,’ the custody sergeant said cheerfully.

He led her into a cell to wait for the duty solicitor. As she had doggedly refused to answer one way or the other when asked if she wanted a solicitor present at her interview, Geraldine called one anyway to avoid unnecessary delay once the interview started.