The Fashion Police (23 page)

I didn’t know whether to giggle or run away. Callum Bates was suspended by his arms from some kind of rope pulley contraption that was bolted to a wooden bar on the ceiling. His feet just about touched the floor, and I could see welt marks where the rope tied around his wrists had dug into his pasty flesh. Callum wore a pair of black, PVC Lederhosen, a leather studded gag, and a look of ecstasy. But that wasn’t even the weird part. The weird part was that Bernie was dressed up in a white Lycra Elvis suit which was studded with millions of tiny rhinestones, and topped off with flared collars and trousers.  He even wore an Elvis wig, and was humming ‘You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog’ as he smacked Callum repeatedly on the backside with what looked like a wet trout. Honestly, I kid you not!

‘Say it!’ Bernie cried, swinging the trout with a delighted look on his face.

‘OK, OK! Elvis is the king,’ Callum yelled from behind the gag, writhing with obvious pleasure.

‘And who loves to be whipped by Elvis?’ Bernie increased the slapping tempo.

‘Me!’ Callum’s eyes rolled up in his sockets as his whole body shuddered and then slumped forwards, taking all the weight on his arms.

 I gazed on in morbid fascination. Which was worse, a sweaty looking Callum in his Lederhosen, or Bernie, with his round body stuffed into the Lycra suit, unzipped to the waist, revealing his wispy chest hair? This wasn’t the strangest sight I’d ever come across as a police officer, but it was close. Obviously, what I’d thought was the Fandango swimsuit was in fact the Elvis suit. And although I hadn’t been exactly right about Crumpleton’s dodgy behavior, I hadn’t been that far off either. Crumpleton wasn’t into anything illegal, just kinky. No wonder my sexy come-to-bed look hadn’t worked. And with Callum Bates too? Well, who’d have thought it? 

I slipped just as quietly out of the house, feeling disappointed that I hadn’t found Fandango, but pleased that I could use this little snippet of sordid Elvis-trout sex against Callum.

****

A few hours later, allowing time for post-coital Elvis appreciation, I pulled up outside Callum Bates’s house. I carefully tiptoed up his path, trying to avoid the fresh oil slick, slap bang in the middle of it. I’d already ruined one pair of shoes this week. I couldn’t handle ruining another.

I banged on the door and waited. Then I gave it a few forceful thumps for good measure. I was just about to thump again when the letter box flipped open from the inside.

‘What do you want, Porky?’ Bates said through the letterbox, which rather unfortunately was aimed right at my crotch.

I ignored him and banged harder on the door.

‘Hey! Stop it,’ he yelled. ‘I’m not opening the door to you.’

I bent down and eyeballed him through the letterbox. He had another thing coming if he thought I was going to give him the benefit of talking to my crotch. That was only reserved for a select few, like Romeo… and maybe Brad. I felt a tingling sensation in my naughty bits – oh, no! Not Brad. Definitely not Brad. See, this is what raging hormones did to you. They made you go all funny, thinking about people that you really shouldn’t be thinking about.

‘Go away.’ Callum’s voice jerked me back down from my little on the spot fantasy running through my mind.

‘What are the Cohen brothers up to?’ I said.

‘Ha! I’m not telling you anything.’

I made a loud, buzzing noise. ‘Wrong answer.’

 ‘What makes you think I’ll tell you, Miss Piggy?’

‘Because if you don’t, I’m going to tell them and everyone else I can think of that you’re into wild and sordid Elvis-trout sex with Bernine Crumpleton. In fact, I might put an advert in the paper or plaster it in big, bold letters on a banner. Hmm, I can imagine the headlines now: ‘Well-known car thief in sex scandal with a wet, trout-wielding lawyer who thinks he’s Elvis’. How do you think that would go down in the criminal underworld? I think your tough-guy-thief street cred would be a tad ruined. Why would anyone want to hire you to steal for them when they can hire a completely normal thief?’

That got the door swinging open pretty quick. Callum poked his head out, his little bloodshot eyes darting around nervously. ‘Shh!’

I stood up, folded my arms, and gave him the evil eye. ‘Well, what’s it to be?’

He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, they’ll probably kill me if they think I’m a…’

‘A what? A freak? And not only a freak – a freak who’s fraternizing with the enemy, as well. Your days will be numbered, Bates. Getting trouted by a lawyer? Tut, tut.’

‘But the Cohens would probably hack me up into little pieces if they knew I was seeing a lawyer. You can’t do that!’

He probably wasn’t that far off the mark, actually. The Cohens looked like the kind of people who would have a variety of body parts stashed in their freezer.

My hands flew to my cheeks. ‘Oh, my God, shock, horror! I’m sure you’ll be sadly missed – anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell the Cohens you’re a weirdo-lawyer-lover, and if you do tell me, then it will just be our little secret, and I’ll approve your insurance claim for the stolen van. It’s a win-win situation for both of us.’

Callum stared at his feet for a while. Then he said, ‘The Cohen brothers are dangerous. You don’t want to mess with them. They’re into all sorts of shit these days.’

‘And can you elaborate on “all sorts of shit”?’

‘They’re shipping out a batch of stolen cars to Saudi Arabia this week, and they’re planning on torching the warehouse afterwards.’

‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? When are they shipping the batch out?’

‘I don’t know,’ he wailed, his eyes filling with tears.

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Really, I don’t. You have to believe me!’

I actually did believe him. There’s no way he’d take a chance on lying if he thought he’d get whacked by the Cohens for cavorting with a lawyer. ‘Exactly when are the Cohens going to torch the warehouse?’

‘Wednesday night. They’ve already pre-booked the arsonist.’

‘Wow, arsonists must be pretty busy these days if you have to pre-book.’ Today was Tuesday, so I had a day off from warehouse duty before the arsonist turned up.

‘What else?’

‘Nothing else. I don’t know anything else.’ He shook his head so hard I thought it might fly off.

I glared at him, making sure he was telling the truth while he sweated. When I was satisfied that he didn’t know anything else, I turned to leave. Then I whipped back around to face him. ‘Oh, by the way, I lied about the insurance claim. You still have to take a lie detector test. Have a good day now. See ya.’

21

‘Heather Brown died from a single bullet wound to the head,’ Carol Blake told me over the phone. ‘No surprise there. Also, forensics said that the blood found at Fandango’s office matches Fandango’s blood type. They’re still running a DNA test on it to confirm that it’s his. ‘

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I said.

‘No problem. I have some bad news, too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Janice Skipper wants you to come to the police station for a chat.’

‘Do I get tea and biscuits as well?’

Carol chuckled.

‘When does she want me to come in?’

‘ASAP.’

I’d rather slit my wrists. ‘Great, I can’t wait.’

****

I stood outside the entrance to Hertford Police Station, gripping the door handle.
Come on, Amber, it’s not like you haven’t done this a million times before. Hell, you walked the beat here; you were promoted to detective sergeant here. This place has been your home for nineteen years. What’s the worst that could happen
?

Yeah, good point, but that was all before Janice Skipper turned up and had her way, wasn’t it?

I’d love to say that Janice had a beaky nose, buck teeth, and was covered in spots, but unfortunately she was just the opposite. She was tall and slim for starters, with shiny, straight, black hair that hung down to her shoulder blades, and eyebrows plucked into perfect arches. Her hard interior was hidden well beneath delicate features. You’d never guess just by looking at her petite nose, her pouty lips, and her innocent-looking blue eyes that she was really a man eating she-devil who’d slept her way up the promotion ladder. I was sure she was a wicked witch in a past life, or maybe an android.

I finally swung the door open with a heavy heart, and legs that felt like blocks of steel. Sweat pricked at my palms as I approached the front desk, and my neck twitched involuntarily. I took a deep breath and waited in the queue of people.

‘Hi, Amber, how’s things?’ the station duty officer asked me when my turn came.

‘Great,’ I said with far more enthusiasm than I actually felt. I tried to smile, but it ended up coming out as more of a manic mouth twitch. ‘I’m here to see Janice Skipper.’ I debated whether to add the words ‘the Wicked Witch’ on the end of that sentence, but I was trying to be a grown up.

The duty officer leaned forward toward the reinforced glass partition and said, ‘Oh, you mean the Wicked Witch.’

See, it wasn’t just me. ‘You read my mind.’

Janice chose that well timed moment to appear from nowhere behind the duty officer’s desk. She cleared her throat, and the duty officer nearly jumped out of his skin, looking uncomfortable.

Janice gave me a sickly, false smile. ‘What a lovely reunion DS Fox. Oh, wait. How silly of me. You’re not a detective sergeant anymore, are you?’ She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at me.

Dig number one.

The duty officer bent over the desk, pretending to concentrate on his paperwork.

‘Let’s do this in the interview room,’ Janice said. ‘You know the way, don’t you? It will make a refreshing change for you to be on the other side of the desk this time. Kind of like a busman’s holiday.’ She turned to make her way out of the enquiry office and added, ‘Oh, I forgot, you can’t gain access into the station anymore. I’ll have to come through and let you in.’

Dig number two.

Maybe I should stop counting now before I wound myself up any more. My shoulders already felt like a taut elastic band, about to ping at any second. I rolled them around in a circle to ease the tension, wondering what evil little plans she’d been cooking up for me in her cauldron. Whatever it was, I had a horrible feeling that I wasn’t going to like it.

She disappeared, returning a few moments later to open the locked door that led to the rest of the station. She turned on her heels and marched up the corridor.

I followed close behind her as she wafted cloying perfume everywhere. ‘Nice perfume. Is it Poison?’

She ignored me and threw open the door to the tiny, overheated interview room with no windows. ‘Sit.’ She pointed to one of the plastic chairs, separated from the other chair by a desk. The walls were stark institutional white. 

‘Do I get a bone if I’m good?’ I sank down on the chair, resting my elbows on the desk and my chin in my hands, just in case my neck decided to twitch again. God, it was hot in here, which made her perfume all the more oppressive. I knew what she was up to. It was a well-known ploy used by some of the officers in the station. I bet she’d flicked the temperature up right before I got there to try and make me sweat, in more ways than one.

‘Right,’ she said when she’d settled herself on the chair opposite. ‘Why did you kill Heather Brown?’

My jaw wanted to drop to the floor, but I held it up there with my hands before it had the chance. My brain did a silent shriek. At least I hoped it was silent. The moisture drained from my mouth. ‘Huh?’ I finally managed when I’d got my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth again.

She watched my discomfort with obvious pleasure for a few moments as she sat, straight-backed and tight-lipped. Finally, she said, ‘Number one, you were involved in a meeting with her on the night she died. Number two, you were the last person to see her alive, and the one who found her body. The fact that you were both meeting Heather and were the last person to see her is highly suspicious as far as I’m concerned. I could arrest you now if I wanted to.’ She looked like she definitely wanted to.

I raised my chin in the air. ‘With what evidence, exactly?’

‘I don’t need any. We both know that I can keep you locked up for twenty-four hours without charging you, and then get the Superintendent or Magistrate to extend the time.’ She cackled hysterically.

I snorted. ‘Good luck with that. Heather didn’t actually turn up for our meeting, so I wasn’t the last person to see her.’

‘Don’t think I’m content with just getting you thrown off the force. I think it’s much more amusing to see you lose your new job and your boyfriend as well. I’m not done with you yet. I’m going to destroy you, Amber Fox.’ She jabbed a finger in my direction.

‘You’ve been eating too many Froot Loops for breakfast again, haven’t you?’ I said.

Her mouth pursed into an angry little pucker. I made a mental note never to use that expression.

‘This is an extremely high-profile case that involves a very rich and famous person, and you’re involved in it up to your eyeballs. If you don’t tell me what you know, then I’ll arrest you for Heather’s murder.’

‘What, so you can get someone else to do all the leg work, and you take all the glory as usual?’

‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘You’ve managed to perfect that into a fine art, claiming the credit for all the cases other people have solved while you sit on your backside, filing your nails.’ I sat back in the chair, folding my arms across my chest.

She glanced down at her nails briefly before beaming back something that was either a smug smile or its close first cousin. ‘Thanks.’

I was gob smacked. She actually thought I was complimenting her achievements. ‘Do you know how long Fandango has been a designer?’

She waved the question away with a dismissive hand as if it were a fly. ‘I don’t know. And frankly, it’s irrelevant. No wonder you haven’t got very far, asking ridiculous questions like that.’

I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at that one. ‘OK, let’s cut to the chase,’ I said quickly, clearing my throat. ‘How about this: We both tell each other what we know so far.’

‘And why would I tell you anything?’

‘Because I have a proposal for you: If I solve the case before you, then you admit the truth about what happened at the shooting range. And you also admit that you’ve been trying to get me thrown off the force for no good reason for years.’

‘Hang on. Let me get this straight. You want me to confess that you actually shot me by accident after I broke protocol at the shooting range by stepping out into your line of fire? And you want me to say how I cunningly and constructively manipulated your career advances and purposefully got you thrown off the force? Ha! Good one. And what’s in this for me?’

‘Well, if you solve the case before I do, I will give up my job at Hi-Tec and finish with Romeo to satisfy the insane jealousy issues you’ve got going on, and we’ll never have to clap eyes on each other again.’ I felt pretty confident that she’d go for it. Her big-headed arrogance and vindictive penchant for wrecking people’s lives wouldn’t allow her to pass it up. I also knew that Janice didn’t know diddly-squat.

Her eyes lit up. ‘It’s a deal. What do you know then?’

What I really wanted to do was shoot my mouth off and wipe that smug smile off her face. It was so tempting – almost too tempting – to tell her everything I knew so far, so she would know that I was a better investigator than her. And the temptation was so great that it burned like an infection under my skin. But I knew that giving everything away would only hinder my own chances of solving the case and getting my job back. I also knew that premature mouth-shooting-off was like premature ejaculation. You never knew what kind of mess you might get into. So instead, I fed her tid-bits. I told her about Tia, because I knew that the police had already spoken to her. I told her about the witness who’d seen the van leaving Fandango’s offices wearing an Obama mask, because Heather had been found wearing the same mask and Janice would never work out the significance of what that was all about. I told her about the existence of Samantha James, because that lead had already come from the police, but I didn’t admit to knowing about her warehouse. I didn’t tell her about Fetuccini, Bagliero, and the five million pound payments to Fandango or Heather. I didn’t spill the beans on Heather’s financial problems, Samantha’s payment of ten thousand pounds from Fandango on the day he disappeared, and my suspicions about Samantha’s diminishing bank account. I didn’t let on about my theories on the mob connection, the Goon Girls, or the cocaine I’d found. I didn’t mention Fandango’s missing past, which seemed to me to be the biggest, most pertinent question that related to this case. I talked for forty-five minutes, spinning it out to make myself sound convincing. I didn’t think for a minute that she’d stick to her side of the bargain, but I had a secret trick up my sleeve. Well, not quite up my sleeve, but close.

‘Your turn,’ I said when I’d finished.

‘My investigation points to Samantha James. She’s been under surveillance, and we’ve seen her meeting with a suspected hit man. Samantha handed him a brown package that we think contained money for the hit,’ Janice said.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Charlie Biggs. He’s got previous for theft, loan sharking, and he’s been on trial for attempted murder. The case was thrown out for lack of evidence, but it’s only a matter of time before we get enough evidence against both of them. Samantha killed Fandango and stole his fashion collection to fence.’ She crossed her legs and plastered another smug smile all over her face.

‘Who killed Heather, then?’

‘Well, obviously Heather’s memory must’ve returned after she was knocked out, and she confronted Samantha, who then killed her to shut her up.’

‘What about motive?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, what do you think Samantha’s motive is?’

‘No wonder you were such a poor investigator. The motive is obvious, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. Samantha killed Fandango to get her hands on his fortune. My superior detective skills have already established that he never got around to changing his will after they split up. He left her half a million pounds. That’s plenty of motive in my book,’ Janice said.