Frozen (18 page)

‘Are you linking this girl's death with those others?'

Leverton gave him a look of annoyance. ‘I'm sorry – I can't possibly comment on that.'

‘I only asked,' Simon persisted, ‘because my mother's scared out of her wits. She's got it into her head there's some serial killer on the loose. Will you be calling in that profiler – the one BTV's doing a programme about?'

‘Like I said, Mr Simon, I really can't comment. Please tell your mother not to worry. Incidents like this are really very rare, you know.'

‘Still, three in one week.' Simon picked up his coat. ‘Makes you think.'

*   *   *

‘Are you going to tell me about it, then?' Patrick was pouring generous measures of whisky into a couple of Megan's crystal tumblers. He handed her one, tilting his head to one side and fixing her with his most winning smile.

Megan winced at the memory of Leverton's words. ‘It's a mess – a real mess,' she said. ‘And it's my fault for trying to play Leverton at his own game.' She told him about Maria Fellowes and the blood group of the semen on the photograph. ‘I thought that within a couple of days we'd have a DNA result on the semen, which I hoped would be identical to that of one of the killers.'

‘But you haven't?'

‘No. When I handed the photograph over, I had no idea there was a backlog of samples waiting to be tested. The result won't be available until after Christmas.'

‘So all the police have got is the blood group result, which tells them the pervert is definitely not the AB man.'

Megan sighed. ‘I know. Like I said, it's a mess. And to make things worse, Leverton's headed off on a wild goose chase to Winson Green prison to interview Maria Fellowes' pimp.'

‘Who was actually locked up when the last three victims were killed.' Patrick frowned. ‘Haven't they got any record of this – what's his name again?'

‘Campbell. Tyrone Campbell.'

‘Haven't they got any record of his blood group or a DNA sample? If he's got previous he should have been tested.'

‘I don't know. He was charged with drugs possession two weeks ago, but Leverton told me there's a waiting time of eight weeks at the moment for non-urgent samples. So unless he's been charged with another offence in the past year or so, there's not going to be any record of his DNA.'

‘Well, if I was Leverton, I'd have checked that out before going to Winson Green.'

‘I'm sure he will have,' Megan said. ‘He's very thorough. Just bloody stubborn.'

Patrick topped up her glass and refilled his own. ‘If he'd accepted your theory that it's the pimp who works at BTV,' he said, looking up as he lifted his glass, ‘what would have happened next?'

Megan took a sip of her whisky. ‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, imagine he'd taken on board your idea about the pimp being some sort of casual worker there,' said Patrick. ‘I mean, I'm assuming you think the pervert and the pimp are one and the same…'

‘Yes, I do. I think the man who sent that photograph to Delva was also responsible for dumping Maria's body. It was a stunt aimed at shocking her, but it backfired because she didn't actually see it.'

‘So this pimp or pervert or whatever we're going to call him – who do you think he is?'

‘He could be one of dozens of people who work at BTV on a casual or part-time basis. The spelling and grammar in the letters Delva showed me suggested a blue-collar occupation. At the time I thought it could be a deliberate ploy by an educated colleague but that seems less likely now.'

‘Why?'

‘Well the small-time pimps – the ones who're not involved in drug-dealing – are usually either unemployed or doing some sort of unskilled or semi-skilled job. I've come across a few pimps from what you might call the professional classes, but they tend to run high-class call-girls, not street prostitutes like Donna Fieldhouse and Natalie Bailey.'

‘So the pervert has some sort of blue-collar job.'

‘Yes,' said Megan, ‘and it's absolutely crucial to find out who he is. Nail him and he'll lead us to the other killer. Without him, it's going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack, profile or no profile.'

‘But Leverton thinks he's already got the pimp, so where's he going to start looking for the other killer?'

‘Well, I think he's got it in for Donalsen,' Megan replied. ‘You should have seen the guy's face when Leverton told him about Maria Fellowes' body being found. He's got to be involved in some way, but I still don't believe he's a killer.'

Patrick thought for a moment, rolling the remains of his whisky around the glass. ‘If I was Leverton I'd be checking if anyone who works at BTV is an ex-cop.'

‘Why would he do that if he already believes Donalsen is the killer?'

‘Well, let's just imagine for a minute that Leverton is right about Tyrone Campbell being the pimp who killed Donna Fieldhouse…'

Megan frowned.

‘But,' Patrick went on, ‘he definitely can't be the pervert who sent that stuff to Delva Lobelo because he's been in jail for the past two weeks.'

‘So?'

‘So if Leverton really believes Donalsen is the other killer that leaves him with a major problem. There has to be
someone
involved who has regular access to BTV. Wonder how he'll get round that one?'

*   *   *

PC Costello was cruising slowly through the red light district when a woman stepped out of the shadows and flagged him down. He recognised her as she sauntered towards the passenger door of his car.

In the dark, she looked quite attractive. She was tall and slim and wore high black leather boots and an expensive-looking jacket. He wondered how many other men knew her secret. He doubted if any of her punters had been allowed to see what he had seen. She rapped on the window and he leaned across to let her in.

‘About bloody time!' she said, shivering as she eased herself into the seat. ‘You going back? I need a hot chocolate. It's cold as a penguin's bollocks out there!'

Costello laughed and started the engine. He glanced at her as they drove along. She fascinated him. The thought of men paying her for sex intrigued him.

‘I've got something to tell you,' she said slyly as he pulled up.

*   *   *

Megan was attempting to stick down a flap of Christmas wrapping paper and Patrick was trying to help her. The double whiskies had taken their toll and she ended up sellotaping his thumb to the parcel. They both collapsed onto the rug, giggling like teenagers.

‘Whose idea was this?' Patrick laughed, screwing the sellotape into a ball and tossing it into the fire.

‘Yours!' Megan retorted. ‘Remember? Let's not talk about work, you said.'

‘Okay, okay, so I'm useless at wrapping Christmas presents.'

He was lying on his back, and as Megan leaned across to retrieve her glass he pulled her down on top of him, kissing her before she could protest.

‘Mmmm … What was that for?' She broke away, smiling as she gazed down into his eyes.

‘Christmas?' he murmured. ‘I didn't get you a present, you see.'

‘Very funny.' Megan ran her fingers through his hair. ‘But what would your girlfriend say?'

He closed his eyes. ‘Who said anything about a girlfriend?'

‘Oh come on, Patrick. Don't try telling me the Heartland heart-throb hasn't got someone keeping his bed warm back home.'

‘The what?' Patrick opened his eyes and laughed when he saw the knowing expression on Megan's face. In a sudden, swift movement, he rolled her onto the rug, pinioning her arms above her head while he kissed her mouth and neck.

Megan knew she should be pushing him away. He relaxed his grip on her wrists, but she found she couldn't move. The sensation of his lips on her skin was setting off fireworks deep inside. It had been such a long, long time.

‘Patrick…' She heard herself saying his name and it sounded strange and wonderful; wonderful but dangerous. She sat up, pulling her sweater back on to her shoulder. ‘We mustn't do this.'

‘Why not?' He ran his finger softly along her neck. ‘It's Christmas, we're together – and I've been wanting to do this to you for the past six weeks.' He slipped his hand over her shoulder, delving beneath her sweater to rub her back. Then he plunged his face into the soft wool covering her breasts. Slowly he pushed back the fabric, stroking her skin with his tongue.

‘No, Patrick!' She stood up and made for the kitchen. Flicking the switch on the kettle, she grabbed the coffee jar. She reached for the mugs, but he was behind her. She could feel his arms slipping around her waist.

‘Why not?' he whispered in her ear.

‘Because I'm your supervisor, for a start!' Her hand shook as she spooned out the coffee. ‘How can I carry on working with you if we start getting involved?'

Instead of answering, he whispered in her ear, ‘Can't you take me with you to that little cottage in Wales? I could fly back from Amsterdam on Boxing Day…' He began to nibble the back of her neck. She stood staring at the kettle, wanting him to carry on, wishing she hadn't allowed things to go this far. Steam rushed from the spout and she freed herself, concentrating hard as she poured the boiling water into the mugs. She told herself that when they had both sobered up everything would be all right. They would part for Christmas and when they met again it would all seem like a dream.

*   *   *

Costello watched the woman walk away. Her words were a dangerous weapon. What was he going to do?

She was climbing the steps at the end of alley. He could see her buttocks swaying from side to side, bulging out of her tight satin shorts. And that wig – was it a trick of the light or was it lopsided?

She had told him many times that she was old enough to be his mother. Not that he needed telling. In the harsh fluorescent lights of the lock-up she looked more like a grandmother. He would never forget the first time he had seen her without the wig. It had been his first week on the Vice Squad. No one had warned him about her, apart from telling him she was the oldest tart on the beat.

After it happened, she swore him to secrecy, saying none of the punters knew and if word got round it would ruin her business. She had been a pathetic sight standing there in the charge room, her painted face like a mask on a mannequin's naked head.

‘What are you gawping at?' she'd said, bending down to retrieve the wig from the floor. ‘Wouldn't stare at me if I was a fella, would you?'

She was right, of course. And he was sure she would be equally convincing if she stood up in court to say who she had seen picking up Maria Fellowes. There was really only one thing he could do.

Chapter 12

Megan opened her eyes and screamed. There was someone sitting on the bed beside her. He reached out for her in the darkness and for a split second she was plunged into a recurring nightmare.

‘Hey, calm down. It's only me!' Patrick held her close, muffling her cries with his shoulder. ‘I'm sorry I scared you – I thought you were still awake.'

‘Oh God!' Megan gasped, ‘You must think I'm stark raving mad, screaming like that. It's just that I couldn't work out who you were; I must have dozed off and then when I saw you sitting there I thought it was…' She trailed off, too embarrassed to go on.

‘Who?' Patrick drew back but took one of her hands in his. In the light that filtered through the curtains from the street-lamps she could just make out his features. He was looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. ‘Who, Megan?'

She raised her free hand to her forehead. There was a pounding inside her skull and she rubbed the skin in a vain attempt to ease the pain. ‘It's okay. It was just a bad dream.'

‘Where do you keep the aspirin?' he asked, releasing her hand and standing up.

‘In the kitchen, the cupboard above the kettle – thanks, Patrick.' She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes, listening to his footsteps as he padded down the stairs. She hoped he wouldn't ask any more questions. How could she explain that she had mistaken him for a rapist?

She had never even told her sister about that night. Ceri's twenty-first birthday party. The tall, dark, pushy friend of Neil's who wouldn't leave her alone. The taxi home, unaware that she was being followed. The banging on the door that had woken her up. His face. So plausible. Saying Neil had no room and had sent him to ask her for a bed. She blinked, trying to shut out what had happened next. Neil was the only one who knew. And he had never believed her.

Patrick came back with a glass of water and two tablets. As he sat down on the edge of the bed she noticed that he was only wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The sight of his bare legs made the pounding in her head feel worse. He held out the tablets and she took them, thankful that he hadn't switched on the light.

‘Are you going to tell me what all that was about?' he asked gently.

‘I … I can't. It's something that happened years ago; I'd rather not talk about it.' As she said the words she realised why she had felt such blind panic. It wasn't just the memory of the rape. All those inexplicable incidents – the maggots, the shells, the open window. She'd tried to rationalise them away, but they'd been festering in her subconscious.

‘I'm sorry,' Patrick said. ‘I shouldn't have come creeping up here like that, but I couldn't sleep and there was something I wanted to tell you.'

‘What?'

‘Well, I feel really bad about what happened. I put you in a really awkward situation and I want to say sorry.'

Megan opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head. ‘No. There's something else I have to tell you.' He paused and took a breath. ‘There is someone – in Holland, I mean. Before I came here I was engaged. We were supposed to be getting married next summer.'