Death Call (11 page)

‘While you two were sleeping, Wheeler and Thompson were hard at work. We had another stiff turn up last night. Same MO as your slasher. In fact the whole thing looks very similar indeed,’ Jones said.

‘Another prostitute?’ Carroll asked.

‘Yeah, looks like she was sexually assaulted, too. Forensics are finishing up on the scene at the moment. I want you two to take over from Thompson and Wheeler – it’s obviously your guy who did this, and you must be near to finding him by now....’ Jones said, fishing for an update.

‘Well, we have a general description of the perpetrator, sir, but we haven’t got any definite description yet....’ Grant said.

‘You can start by knocking on some doors down Baalbec Street. The body was found in the bedroom of number twelve. Wheeler and Thompson left their report on your desk – read up on it and then get to work. And gentlemen, I want to see some results. You’ve been moving too slow on the McCrae case. Don’t go letting the grass grow under your feet, okay?’

Grant made a move to get up from his seat. Jones looked at him and smiled.

‘It took a while to get a hold of you this morning, Sam, are you back with your wife?’

‘I don’t think that has anything to do with you, sir....’

‘We need to be able to contact you at all times. Your mobile was switched off. At least have the courtesy to leave a contact number in future, Detective Constable Grant, okay?’ Jones didn’t like being snubbed, it seemed.

Thompson and Wheeler had been working hard. The report was one of the best that either Carroll or Grant had read for a long time. Not only was it neatly typed, it also had every last detail, every last angle and attitude. In fact the report was so good, that Carroll could visualise the entire crime scene from the notes. The last time Carroll had worked with Wheeler, he had got the impression that the guy was barely able to write. It must’ve been Thompson, he thought, looking for his initials at the bottom of the report. Sure enough, there were Thompson’s initials, followed by Wheeler’s. It was obvious, at least to Carroll, who had written the report.

Grant wasn’t feeling very talkative. It didn’t help matters when Carroll started to pry into his personal life.

‘So, you got back together with the missus, then?’

‘What’s it to you, man?’

‘Nothing, I just thought you might be a little easier to work with now that you’ll be getting it regular again, you know....’

‘It’s not like that....’

‘Like what?’

‘We’re not back together – at least I don’t think we are, anyway....’

‘You mean you don’t know?’ Carroll didn’t seem to understand.

‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Now let’s just get up to Baalbec Street and have a look at this body before they go and move it....’

Grant had clammed up. He must’ve had a hard time of it, Carroll thought, trying to suss out whether he had gotten his end away. It was impossible to tell. With most people, he thought, it was blatantly obvious – they had a stupid grin on their face for a day or two – especially if they hadn’t been getting much for a while. And Grant most certainly had not, he thought. Come to think of it, neither had he.

The body was still in place by the time they arrived at the crime scene. The young officer on duty outside the house hadn’t recognised either of the detectives and had asked for ID. Carroll shoved his warrant card in the guy’s face and snapped at him.

‘You ever stop me from doing anything, ever again, and I’ll stick that fuckin’ tit you have on your head right up your arse, understand?’

The young constable cringed and stood to one side, letting the two detectives pass. If he didn’t know who they were before today, he wouldn’t have that problem again. That was for sure.

The woman’s body lay lengthways across the bed, her head hanging over the edge. There was blood everywhere. She wore only a pair of stockings and a suspender belt, and it was practically impossible to say what colour they were when she had first put them on, there was so much blood spilt. Everything had gone dark red, the colour blood goes when it has dried into fabric or skin.

According to Thompson’s report, there hadn’t been any ID on the woman, just a handbag containing a bit of cash and a few condoms.

‘Another hooker,’ Carroll said.

Grant just nodded.

The Slater family had been taken to Mrs. Slater’s parents’ home and would be staying there for the immediate future, according to Hughie Osborne, the fingerprint technician from the forensics lab. He’d been there all night and was just packing up to go. Carroll stopped him in his tracks as he left.

‘Hughie, this is an important one, can you have all the prints you’ve found checked out by tomorrow?’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Dan, but I can’t promise you anything, okay?’

‘Cheers, Hughie. I’ll give you a bell....’

Grant was combing the house for clues. If the woman was a hooker, which seemed to be the case, then she was probably a call girl. If the guy had done it once, well, then why wouldn’t he do it again? Grant found just what he was looking for on the telephone stand in the hallway. A telephone book lay open on the letter ‘E’. Listed on both pages were around ten escort agencies, all based in the central London dialling code area.

Thompson had estimated time of death to be somewhere in the region of four in the afternoon, give or take an hour or two. That would put the call girl on duty at around half three. Knowing that simple fact would make it a hell of a lot easier finding out where the girl worked and who had ordered her, Grant surmised.

Carroll came down the stairs and approached Grant.

‘I suppose it’s about time we did some door knocking, don’t you?’ Carroll said.

‘Yeah. You take the other side, I’ll do this side....’

Carroll nodded and wandered out into the front garden. The young constable was still there, and he gave Carroll a dirty look, as he passed.

‘Is there a problem, constable?’ Carroll asked with a smirk.

‘No sir, I’m just doing my job, sir.’

‘Well, don’t let your job get in the way of mine – otherwise you’ll find yourself on report, understand?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Now, don’t let anyone past this gate unless they have ID, okay? Do you think you can handle that?’

‘Sir.’

Carroll laughed a little to himself as he crossed the road to commence his door knocking routine. A routine that he had grown to hate over the years he had been perfecting it.

First port of call was number thirty-seven. The grass could do with a trim, Carroll thought on entering the garden. And a lick of paint wouldn’t go astray either. He pressed the intercom button and waited. A woman’s voice came weakly from the speaker.

‘Yes, who is it?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Carroll, I’m investigating an incident at number twelve, across the road. I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?’

‘Just one moment,’ the woman said, pushing a button which released the latch on the front door. ‘Just push the door, I’m in the front room.’

Carroll walked in and looked around. It was a dark old house with beautiful antique furniture. This place must be worth a few quid, he thought, as he entered the front room. There, in front of him, sat a frail and bent old lady in a wheelchair. She looked a little tired, but her eyes shone with a youthful radiance that he had seldom seen in one so old.

‘It’s about number twelve, ma’am, We are investigating a crime...’

‘A murder....’

‘A murder, ma’am, yes – how did you know?’

‘I’ve been looking out the window all morning, officer. That’s all I tend to do these days.’

‘Did you see anything or anyone suspicious around the house yesterday afternoon?’

‘Do you mean the young woman, or the man?’

‘The man? What man did you see around the house?’

‘I saw a man run from the house yesterday afternoon at around half four, I think.’

‘Can you describe him?’ Carroll was getting excited at the prospect of a description of his killer.

‘He had very short blonde or reddish hair, going slightly bald, I think, and he was around thirty or thereabouts.’

‘What was he wearing, ma’am?’

‘I seem to remember a green jacket and some jeans. He had running shoes, too.’

‘And you saw him running from the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the young woman?’

‘She arrived in a taxi at around ten to four, I think, and went straight into the house. I didn’t see her leave. Was it her that was murdered?’

‘Can you describe the woman you saw, ma’am?’

‘A leggy young woman – she had blonde hair and a short skirt. She was pretty, but she dressed like a tramp. Such a shame. Was she the one killed?’

‘Yes, I think she was. Were you sat here looking out your front window all day?’

‘That’s all I can do these days, officer....’

‘Your name, ma’am, what’s your name?’

‘Elizabeth Gardener. Is there anything more I can do, officer?’

‘Yes, I’d like you to come down to the station with me to try and identify the man you saw from our photo book.’

‘You mean mug-shots, don’t you?’

‘Mug-shots, yeah – just like on TV,’ Carroll smiled.

‘Perhaps you could bring them here. I can’t go outside, you see, I catch cold very easily, and it stays with me for months....’

‘Yes, of course we can bring them over,’ Carroll said, realising how hot it was in the house. The heating was on full – all of the time, it seemed. There was no fear of Elizabeth Gardener catching cold if she stayed in her house.

It was their first decent lead, and it was better than they could have ever dreamed. A description of the killer would give them every chance in the world of catching the man responsible for the murders. It was now only a matter of time.

Chapter 12

Once the forensic boys had cleared up and left, all that needed to be done at number twelve Baalbec Street was a quick paint job. No one, except the police and maybe one or two neighbours, would ever know what really happened in the master bedroom of the house – at least not in any real detail.

According to the early reports that came from the forensics office, the dead woman was strangled and then cut open, just like Jo McCrae. Only this time, the woman hadn’t been dead when the killer began his cutting. That, according to forensics, was obvious on seeing the crime scene. The blood-stained walls and ceiling told the story much better than any typewritten report ever could. With a pumping heart and lacerated arteries you have an instant bloody mess on your hands. Whoever killed the woman was most certainly covered in her blood from head to toe.

Carroll and Grant made their way back to Baalbec Street with their book of mug-shots. If Elizabeth Gardener was all-there, and if her eyesight was as good as she had implied, then maybe, just maybe, they had a solid lead. The only problem, Carroll thought, was that she had not mentioned anything about the guy being covered in blood.

They had already identified the second victim as Isabella Visi, an escort with the City Slickers Escort Agency. They were due to pay a visit to the agency later that day. But for now they had Elizabeth Gardener to interview and a killer to identify.

Carroll sat down at Mrs. Gardener’s insistence while she had her home-help assistant put on the kettle. She was a good-looking young woman of around twenty-five, wearing fashionable jeans and a red shirt. Grant stood looking out the window, in an effort to understand how much the old woman could have seen on the day of the murder.

The old woman’s eyes scanned the mug-shot book with obvious delight. It seemed as if she was having the time of her life. She was a live-wire all right, Carroll thought. And he wasn’t wrong. Elizabeth Gardener had been married five times. Each of her husbands had died prematurely, leaving her alone but increasingly wealthy. She had a particular fancy for Jamaican men, she had told Grant, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on hearing this. Her third and fourth husbands had been Jamaican, she had said. Carroll wondered if any of her husbands had been Irish. She didn’t seem like the same nice old lady that Carroll had spoken to a day or so before.

As she poured over the photos, Carroll and Grant drank their cups of tea and asked a few more questions.

‘Was your personal assistant here on the day of the murder?’ Carroll asked.

‘No – she only comes in two afternoons a week – the rest are mornings, aren’t they dear?’ she said, turning to her helper.

‘That’s right,’ the young woman said, nodding.

‘So, the guy was around thirty, blonde and going bald, Mrs. Gardener?’ Grant asked.