Strangers (6 page)

‘Lexus 430,’ Lucy observed.

‘Correct,’ Nehwal said. ‘Belonged to Ronald Ford, the last victim – the next time anyone saw him, apart from the murderer, he was lying dead with his skull bashed in and his dick and balls severed.’

Lucy pondered that. It certainly matched the MO. So far, the APs had all been found in isolated locations but close to busy roads. In each case they had been beaten with a blunt instrument like a hammer, which was thought to have rendered them semi-conscious. They had then had their genitals cut away. Most had died from the subsequent blood loss, though one had also suffered a severely fractured skull, and might already have been dead when he was mutilated.

Though these horrible eviscerations were widely known about inside the police, the taskforce had deliberately been vague with the press, publicising that in all cases death was caused in the same way: first, blows to the head to weaken the subject, and then knife-wounds to the lower abdomen to finish him off. That latter detail wasn’t untrue of course, but they’d withheld it that the sexual organs had been removed in order to weed out any serial confessors, of whom there had already been several since the news had broken that a new killer was on the loose.

There were lots of questions here, though.

‘Gave the nice old lady who was out for an early morning walk with her poodle a turn that she’s never likely to recover from,’ Nehwal added conversationally.

Lucy said nothing as she watched the video play through a second time and a third.

‘You look doubtful,’ Nehwal said.

‘It’s nothing, ma’am … just, wasn’t the second victim a big heavy bloke?’

‘That’s right. Larry Pupper, a lorry driver. Weighed in at about twenty-five stone. We found him just off the East Lancs, near Worsley.’

‘And yet I seem to remember reading that he’d been dragged something like a hundred yards before being dumped in some thickets.’

‘You’ve been following the case, PC Clayburn?’

‘You can’t get away from it. It’s all over social media.’

‘Well, wait till this story hits Facebook. Jill the Ripper, eh? You can’t beat a novelty, even where serial killers are concerned. Anyway, yes … that lorry driver thing was easier to understand when we thought we were looking for a bloke, but there are as many oddities in this case as there are theories.’

‘Could the killer be a cross-dresser maybe?’

‘Got a good figure if he is.’ Nehwal closed the iPad. ‘It isn’t a bloke, though. There’s been no semen found at any of the murder scenes. Okay, that isn’t uncommon with sex crimes these days given the public’s knowledge about DNA evidence. But killers are rarely as careful as they like to think they are. More telling is the footprint we identified.’

‘I didn’t realise we had,’ Lucy said.

‘We’re sitting on it,’ Nehwal replied. ‘For the time being at least. There was a whole mess of footprints in the area surrounding all the murder scenes. Most were boot or trainer prints. Hardly unusual given that they were on or near to public footpaths. But then we found the imprint of a high-heeled shoe close to Ronnie Ford’s body. That would be uncommon in a woodland area, which made it suspicious. However, it was only identified as a size seven, which meant that it most likely had been left by a woman rather than a man.’

‘If it’s a woman she’d have to be unusually strong.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Or she’s got company …?’

‘We’ve considered that, but serial killers working team-handed are even rarer than go-it-alone women.’ Nehwal tapped her iPad. ‘And as we have to go where the evidence leads us, at present we’re only looking for one.’

‘So that little miss on the video is your prime suspect?’

‘I wouldn’t call her little. Even allowing for her heels, we estimate she stands about six feet. Plus she’s stacked, as you saw for yourself.’

‘Prozzie?’

‘Most likely.’ Nehwal sniffed. ‘Could be a hitcher, but a tight skirt and high heels … you ever known a hippy chick hit the road dressed like that?’

‘If nothing else, it should be easy enough tracing her.’

‘On the contrary …’ Nehwal cracked a cynical half-smile. ‘It’s proving anything but. Surprisingly so. And there are other complicating factors. Hammond, Pupper and now Ford were all killed in Greater Manchester, but Graham Cummins, the third victim was found in a ditch near Southport, which is in Merseyside, having apparently picked his murderer up – we
think
– just outside Preston, which is in Lancs. So before you ask, their lordships are about to announce Operation Clearway, a specialist taskforce comprising officers from all three forces.’

Lucy nodded. ‘And, just out of interest … why are you telling
me
?’

‘It’s simple.’ Nehwal slid her iPad back into one of her apparently capacious pockets. ‘We need women, and lots of them. Younger women, preferably … but they’ll need at least a bit of experience.’ She eyed Lucy carefully. ‘You tick both those boxes.’

‘You’re aware, ma’am, that my last CID attachment was a bit of a disaster?’

‘Yeah, but that’s not an issue. You won’t have an investigative role.’

‘Okay, so let me see …’ Lucy’s brief thrill of interest rapidly deflated. She arched an eyebrow. ‘When you say you want young women, you mean you want secretaries to run the MIR?’

‘Erm … no.’ Nehwal cracked another smile, again minus humour. ‘The job you’ll be doing won’t be anything like as clean and safe as that.’

‘Decoys then? You want undercover decoy units?’

‘Well … you won’t be decoys as such. The killer’s not targeting women. But unfortunately, if you take this job it still means you’re going to be out there in your tarty gear, rubbing shoulders with the girls who work the roads.’

‘Covert enquiries?’

‘Basically.
Hang around with them, talk to them, make friends. Collate as much intel as you can.’

‘Sounds like a pretty desperate ploy.’

‘No …’ Nehwal re-rolled the newspaper. ‘
This
was a desperate ploy. Releasing that it’s a woman to the press. But the new footage means the time’s come to openly warn the travelling salesman crowd. So we’re not just in the papers, we’ll be on all the news bulletins too. Whether it works’ll be anyone’s guess. Some of these fellas couldn’t keep it in their pants if a one-eyed hunchback flashed her knockers at them. But basically you’re right … we’ve got to nip this thing in the bud right now.’

‘What’s the actual process going to be?’

‘Just what I say.’ Nehwal headed towards the park gate. ‘Start pretending you’re a hooker. You’ll each have a bodyguard, of course. We’re bringing a few Tactical Support Group lads in. A couple will be parked up covertly wherever you’re walking your pitch. Others’ll be driving round undercover. They’ll pick you up from time to time. Make it look like you’re working. But I’m not going to pretend it isn’t going to be a bag of crap. You’ll have nasty-piece-of-work johns to deal with, not to mention hostile pimps and aggressive suspicion from the real working girls. And a lot of the time you’ll have to deal on your own. We can’t have the TSG monkeys showing their hand for every little thing. It’s going to need to get very tasty indeed before we blow our cover. But you’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you?’

‘Ish,’ Lucy replied.

They reached the edge of the pavement. Rush-hour vehicles trundled back and forth in front of the towering Victorian façade of Robber’s Row.

‘Just don’t take too long making your mind up,’ Nehwal said. ‘We go live on Monday, and before then I’ve got to see twenty other girls.’

‘Any chance there’s a way back into CID for me, ma’am?’ Lucy wondered. ‘I mean if this thing comes off.’

Nehwal mused. ‘We never say “never”.’

‘They more or less said “never” when I fouled up last time.’

‘Jill the Ripper has changed every priority, PC Clayburn.’ Nehwal strode forward as a break opened in the traffic. ‘All bets are off from now on. Anything can happen.’

Chapter 4

Lucy was home by nine, though, strictly speaking, it was her mother’s home. Several years ago, Lucy had bought herself a bungalow on Cuthbertson Court, in another part of town. It was little more than a crash pad really, and at the time she’d acquired it mainly as an investment with a possible view to renting it out at some point. It had been in a poor state of repair back then, and to an extent it still was, Lucy increasingly seeing it as a long-term project, something she could slowly but surely refurbish when she finally got around to it. Whatever she opted to do with it when it was finally finished, in the meantime she was still in her old bedroom in her mother’s small terraced house in Saltbridge, another former mill district close to the border with Bolton.

She yawned as she wheeled her Ducati through the back gate, and opened what had once been the coal bunker but now had been adapted into a shed with a felt and plastic-lined waterproof roof. She pushed the vehicle into the interior, which, though unlit and stinking of oil, was all very orderly. The tools with which she maintained the majestic beast were arrayed neatly on the walls. There were cleaning materials on the shelves, and several spare canisters of Ultimate Unleaded stored in a locker in the corner.

As Lucy closed and padlocked the shed door behind her, her mother stepped out from the kitchen. Whereas Lucy was dark-haired and coltish in build, Cora Clayburn was fair haired and buxom. She’d been quite a beauty in her day, or so Lucy would imagine – she
had
to imagine, because they had no other living relatives and she knew no friends from her mother’s early life who could confirm this. Though age was catching up a little – Cora was now fifty-three and a lot of that lovely fair hair was running to silver – she was still trim and shapely, an appearance she preserved through careful eating and regular exercise. Lucy had always thought that her mum looked amazing in the pink Lycra top and tight, black tracksuit bottoms she wore each day for her five-mile evening constitutional. Less attractive, though, was the shapeless blue smock with the plastic name tag she was currently clad in for her role as assistant manager at the Saltbridge MiniMart.

‘Now?’ Cora said, looking relieved. Shortly after midnight, Lucy had left her a message that she’d be late, but it wouldn’t have stopped her worrying. ‘Long shift, that?’

‘Yeah, but a good one.’ Lucy pulled her gauntlets off and tucked them into her helmet. ‘Bloody maniac grabbed this eighteen-year-old lass on her way home from babysitting.’

‘My God … where?’

‘Top of Darthill Road.’

Cora didn’t look surprised. ‘The Aggies?’

‘The edge of it.’

‘I wish they’d take action about that place. Build on it, or something.’

‘No chance, Mum … they’ll want to find a nice green space for that.’ Cora sidled past her and went indoors, where the mingled aromas of cooked bacon and fresh coffee set her empty stomach rumbling. ‘Anyway, the bastard – pardon my French – gave her a real smacking. Smashed her teeth, broke her nose and cheekbone.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and peeled it off the thin, sweat-damp T-shirt underneath. ‘I got him over in Bullwood. He still had her phone and purse in his pockets. Talk about banged to rights.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Cora said. ‘Who is he?’

‘A total lowlife called Wayne Crompton.’ Lucy folded her leather over the back of a kitchen chair, and stretched. ‘He’s got form as long as your arm, but this time he’ll be off the streets for a while. Charged him a couple of hours ago … robbery, GBH and attempted kidnapping.’

‘Like you said, a good night’s work.’ But Cora’s tone remained neutral, as it always did when Lucy got enthusiastic about cop stuff. ‘But I thought you were back on duty this afternoon?’

‘
Was
,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘Not any more. They offered me the money or the time in lieu, dropping extra-strong hints that they wanted me to take the time. So I’m going to – today.’

Cora nodded approvingly as she shrugged her mac on.

‘Mum, there’s something else I need to talk to you about,’ Lucy said.

‘Tell me quick, because I’m running a bit late.’

‘It’s okay … it’s not important.’

Cora stopped by the door. ‘Go on … I can tell you want to.’

So Lucy did, all about Operation Clearway, not specifying the exact role she’d be playing of course, but outlining the basics of the case and the new lines of enquiry the taskforce would shortly be embarking on.

Cora frowned. ‘So what are you saying … you’re a detective again?’

‘Not quite. It may be a way back for me though.’

‘I’m surprised you want a way back in after the way they treated you last time.’

‘Mum, come on … I’m lucky I’m still in the job.’

‘Some of us wouldn’t mind if you weren’t.’

‘I know that, but look –’ Lucy embraced her ‘– this is me. It’s my life, okay?’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Cora returned the embrace but a little stiffly. ‘And we’ve had this conversation before … so stop going on about it, you silly old trout.’

Lucy pecked her on the cheek. ‘I’ve never called you “a silly old trout”.’

‘You’ve thought it, I’m sure.’

‘The thing is, I’m mainly going to be working nights for the next few weeks.’

Cora considered this with visible apprehension.

Lucy knew why, and that it would be unrelated to her mother’s own safety.

With its edificial industrial ruins and rows of red-brick terraced houses, Saltbridge was not the most salubrious part of Crowley. Like so many working class neighbourhoods in the post-manufacturing era, it was extensively unemployed, drugs and alcoholism were rife and it suffered higher than normal crime rates. But Cora had lived here all of Lucy’s life at least, a dauntless single mum who’d never once been oppressed or intimidated by the environment in which she’d been forced to raise her child. These days, having held a management position for several years, she could probably afford to move out to the suburbs if she wanted to, but she had friends locally and was comfortable here.

‘How long will this assignment last?’ Cora asked.

‘As long as it takes. Could be a few months. But don’t worry. I’m not going to be in harm’s way.’