Cut Short (24 page)

  She vaguely remembered laughing a lot and drinking herself silly before returning to his flat. She had no memory of arriving in his bed and wondered if he'd carried her up the stairs. Her memory of the ensuing intercourse was disappointingly hazy although she recalled insisting he used a condom, so she hadn't been completely wasted. Then she must have passed out. It was embarrassing behaviour in a woman her age. Her face burned just thinking about it. She'd have to make sure no one found out. But Craig knew. Craig was the first man she'd been to bed with since Mark, and she'd ruined her chances with him on their first date. She remembered he'd made her feel like a giggly teenager, although that had probably been due to her drinking so much. Whatever the reason, she'd played the part with a vengeance.

  'Is it a crime to have some fun once in a while?' Ella had complained after her party. Geraldine had gone out looking for some fun. Now she had to get through the day with a thumping headache. She was lucky there hadn't been any calls in the night.

  She glanced down and her breath caught in her throat. There was no signal on her phone.

  'What?' Craig muttered.

  'Where can I get a signal?' She blinked fiercely. Her head pounded.

  'Oh, signal's crap, yeah.' He was barely stirring, eyes still closed. 'Reception's crap. Use landline.' He turned over.

  'Craig!' she shook him roughly and he growled in sleepy protest. 'Where can I get a signal in this house?' She was already out of bed, pulling on her dress. She'd have to go home and change. She must have been completely out of her mind the previous night.

  'It's Sunday morning, for Christ's sake,' Craig grumbled without opening his eyes. 'Go to the bathroom.'

  'What?'

  'Bathroom. Signal.' He rolled over, snoring gently.

  Geraldine pulled her fingers through her hair as she hurried to the bathroom. She examined her drained face in the mirror and dashed cold water on her eyes while she waited for her phone to pick up a signal. She held her breath and then relaxed. There was a signal and no messages. She hadn't blown it after all. Trembling with relief, she sat down on the toilet and tried to decide if she was going to throw up.

  When her phone started to beep, she thought it would never stop. Seven missed calls and one message. She didn't pause to say goodbye to Craig. Grabbing her coat from the banister, she tore out of the flat.

  As soon as she reached the park, Geraldine realised her mistake. She should never have turned up looking as though she'd slept in her clothes. A group of women stood outside the main gateway, several of them waving handmade placards:

KEEP OUR STREETS SAFE
PROTECT WOOLSMARSH WOMEN
CATCH THE KILLER

Geraldine was shocked. A sudden flash of envy shook her. She wished she could join those women, united in their anger. How easy it was for them. They could think up slogans, strut about shouting, and then go home feeling socially responsible.

  She opened the car door and a strident voice assailed her ears.

  'They keep us out of the park, but what about the killer? What are they doing about him? Why target us?' and a wild chant started: 'Catch the killer, catch the killer, catch the killer!' followed by another refrain: 'Close the park, close the park, close the park!' Geraldine glanced in her mirror and paused, one leg already out of the car. Men might not notice her high heels and smeared face, but these women wouldn't miss a trick. She grimaced at her reflection in harsh daylight, but there wasn't time to go home and change.

  She climbed back into the car, closed the door softly and rummaged in her bag for a tissue. There weren't any. Her mouth tasted like sour milk but she licked her finger and rubbed at a smudge of mascara under one eye. It was supposed to be waterproof. She wished she'd checked her face after splashing it with cold water in Craig's bathroom. Her reflection in the rear-view mirror looked dreadful.

  Her phone rang. 'Where are you, gov? There's a protest of some sort going on here, and the press have just turned up.'

  'Great!'

  'What?'

  'Look, I'm here, on my way. I'm outside the park. Only I look a mess.' She wished she hadn't said that.

  Peterson sounded surprised. 'Not as much of a mess as the girl we just fished out of the lake, gov. Where the hell have you been?'

  Her face burning with embarrassment, clutch purse concealed under her arm, Geraldine pushed her way through the throng of women at the gate. Quickly she held up her warrant card and a poker-faced young constable stood aside to let her in. A camera flashed as a journalist spotted her. Too late, she ducked her head.

  'Who's she then?'

  'Must be a reporter.'

  'No, they're letting her in.'

  'Hey, you! Are you in charge round here?' Dressed in her work clothes she would have paused to answer their questions, but today she walked swiftly past.

  'She doesn't look like a policewoman …' a woman's voice reached her.

  'I don't feel like one right now,' she felt like saying, 'but I can't take a day off.'

  Geraldine hurried towards a tent she could see on the grass beside the lake. The copse of trees where the other two bodies had been concealed was just visible, the children's playground out of sight round a bend in the path.

  Peterson brought her up to speed. The body of a young girl had been found in the lake at eight fifteen that morning. A couple of early joggers had spotted her in the water.

  'They thought she was a dead swan,' he said. 'To make matters worse, there's a coven, mostly women, kicking up a stink nearby. Talk about bad timing. We've closed the park and no one's told them about the latest vic yet. You must've seen them out there, making their protest. The boss wants you to deal with them. She asked for you, said she tried your phone, but I told her you were on your way and would call her. I tried to call you. Where were you?'

  Geraldine took a deep breath. 'Is the DCI still here?'

  'No, she's headed back to the station.' Geraldine breathed out, thankful for small mercies. The women at the gate could wait and so could Kathryn Gordon. For once she was relieved to pull a white suit over her clothes, and cover her shoes. 'Death the Leveller,' she muttered bleakly.

  Millard was on his knees in the forensic tent, more informative than usual before removing the body to the mortuary, because the girl had been pulled naked from the water. No clothes had been found at the waterside, and no bag. Geraldine shivered. Like the women at the gate, she believed this was the work of a serial killer. What the public didn't yet know was that with each attack the killer's sexual aggression was escalating.

  Millard had done as much as he could in situ and a white coated forensic team were busy hunting for evidence.

  'She was naked,' the doctor said. 'No clothes, no jewellery. Pierced ears but no earrings or studs. She's been in the water overnight. Possibly longer.'

  'Someone would probably have seen her if she was here yesterday,' Peterson pointed out. Ghoulishly, the park had become popular since the first two killings. Only children were kept away by anxious mothers.

  'Quite possibly. So let's assume overnight.'

  'How did she die?'

  'I really can't say until I've examined her. Presumably she entered the water last night but it doesn't look …' The doctor paused, frowning. 'She looks a bit battered and bruised, but … no, I'm not going to speculate. This kind of head trauma can be sustained ante or post mortem.'

  'You don't think she was strangled? She's not like the others?'

  Millard gave a wary frown and refused to divulge any more. It was a macabre sort of wish, hoping a girl had drowned and not been strangled. Either way, it made no difference to the victim. The mortuary van was on its way but Geraldine didn't wait for it to arrive. She barely had time to rush home and change as it was. She hoped Peterson hadn't smelt her stale breath, and was glad they'd been talking out in the open air.

  'Don't forget to call the DCI, gov.'

  'I'm onto it,' she lied. She had to scurry back past the chanting women to get to her car and cringed at the flashing cameras. She pulled her coat collar up to her chin and shuddered as she felt it tight across her throat. Three victims in eleven days, and she was worrying that her mascara had smudged. Full marks for detachment from the case. Carter would be very proud.

43

Exclusive

Settled in his new digs, Laurie Jackson finally started unpacking on Sunday morning. Most of his clothes cost more than he could afford, but he liked to look the part when he was working. He was hanging up his Paul Smith jacket when he heard a commotion outside. Yanking his window all the way up, he heard several voices all talking at once. He craned his neck sideways and looked down on a cluster of people gathered by the park entrance. Two policemen marched up the path, out of sight round the bend, followed by a couple more. Laurie made out a group of women milling about by the gate with placards. The sound of an approaching siren jolted him into action. Whatever was going on down there Laurence Jackson, reporter extraordinaire, would be first on the scene. Grabbing his camera, he locked his door and charged down the stairs, two at a time, almost barging into his landlady at the foot of the stairs.

  'Going somewhere nice, Mr Jackson?' she asked.

  'Hope so,' he called out over his shoulder as he hurried along the hall.

  'Would you like me to give your room a bit of a go—' she started to ask, but her new tenant had already slammed the front door. She shook her head, smiling. He was probably out to meet a young lady, she thought. He had that sprightly look about him.

  Two uniformed policemen were standing at the entrance to the park, which was closed off by blue and white tape. There were about twenty protesters, mainly women, packed on the pavement and spilling out onto the road. Laurie hovered on the edge of the group, watching.

  One woman appeared to be in charge. 'What do we want?' she yelled and her companions answered in a hectic chorus: 'Safe streets!'

  'When do we want them?'

  'Now!'

  From the chanting and the banners, Laurie gathered they were protesting about the recent murders in the park. He turned to a man at his side and asked about the police presence, which struck him as an extreme response to a bunch of women shouting slogans. When he heard the answer, Laurie felt his heart race. This was even bigger than Melanie Rogers. Another victim had been discovered in the park, and he was the first reporter on the scene. He knew it wouldn't be long before the whole pack arrived. Even the nationals were following the story of the Woolsmarsh Strangler. He tried to think of a way to turn his early arrival to his advantage.

  A pale woman made her way through the crowd, her coat collar turned up. When she reached the entrance, the uniformed constable stood aside to let her through. Laurie snapped her just in time, before she hurried away up the path. At least he had that. He'd read that a woman was running the murder investigation and wondered if he'd just seen her scuttling into the park. He turned his attention back to the woman leading the chanting, an idea forming in his mind. He guessed she was in her early twenties. Ash blonde hair fell in a smooth cascade over one side of her face and her leather jacket looked expensive. As he drew closer, Laurie revised his opinion. She was closer to late forties.

  He made his way through the throng and bided his time. As soon as there was a brief hiatus in the racket he stepped up and introduced himself to the woman in charge of the protest, throwing out his suggestion as though he was doing her a favour.

  'In any case,' he concluded, raising his voice against the noisy crowd, 'I'd be happy to warn you which papers aren't sympathetic to your campaign. My paper supports you, of course. That's why I'm here. We think you're doing a great job. But unfortunately some of the more conservative editors regard you as …' he gave an apologetic smile, 'a bunch of hysterical women.'

  'My husband's supporters,' the blonde woman said with inexplicable venom – but she'd swallowed his story. The protest wouldn't be a scoop, but at least he'd have an exclusive interview with the leader of the Woolsmarsh Women, Laurie thought as he jostled with other reporters to get a decent picture of the mortuary van leaving. If only he could get a shot of the dead girl inside it. Now
that
would make the editor sit up and take notice. He followed the van with his eyes, wondering what the latest victim looked like, and wishing he could be the one to break the story.

44

Body

Millard was on the phone in his office. Geraldine peered through the open door and saw him sitting on his desk, thin legs swinging.

  'I'll try to be home early. I'm waiting for the police now.' He glanced up and smiled at them. 'Oh, they've arrived. Well, call if you want me to get anything on the way home. I shouldn't be late.' He sketched a little wave at the DCI. It was funny, but Geraldine had never imagined the pathologist having another life outside this house of death. She'd pictured him spending solitary evenings in his office, poring over dusty anatomy books, piecing skeletons together like gruesome jigsaws.

  There was little doubt about the dead girl's identity. Jacqueline Ross's parents hadn't formally identified the body yet but the victim matched the description of the missing girl.

  'You couldn't have found the killer while my phone was playing up. Just another victim,' Geraldine grumbled to Peterson as they pulled on their gowns. Under bright electric lights she saw him scrutinise her face: skin pasty, eyes faintly bloodshot and clogged with vestiges of last night's make-up. He made no comment but Geraldine could guess what he was thinking. She looked away, embarrassed. Being a grown woman, and a DI, wasn't turning out to be easy. Right now, she seemed to be making a hash of both.