The Sister (26 page)

One thing was common to all the later cases; he would telephone the victims afterwards, to tease or torment them about their missing property, offering to return it in exchange for sexual favours. Sometimes he would taunt the victims with information he'd gleaned from their private paperwork, or intimate photographs he found inside their homes. He had a talent for locating hidden objects in wardrobes or drawers. He reserved a special brand of abuse for those who had sex toys, pornography, or fetish wear stashed somewhere in their homes. On occasion, he was also known to provide matchmaking services, tricking victims into contacting each other because he'd planted A's possessions at B's house.

Oh A, you're just going to love B, you have such similar interests, all you have to do is talk to each other,
he would croon
and then supply each with the other's contact details. Attempts at blackmail and extortion were also reported in a few instances, but the true number was suspected to be much higher because the victims were too scared, or embarrassed to report them.

He secretly recorded himself having sex with one of the victims in a guest room at a cheap seaside hotel, after agreeing to return a few sentimental items. As the victim later attested:
In return for a fuck, and if you are a smart girl and keep your mouth shut, no one else need know about this.
He'd worn a ski mask throughout her ordeal and rewarded her, by delivering a copy of the film to a national newspaper anyway. If he hadn't done that, the victim would have probably never come forward.

Detectives scrutinised the short film; he wore a blue lumberjack shirt and jeans. No identifying marks or tattoos were visible in any of the shots. He never spoke the entire time, just a series of guttural grunts. The victim was scared, but more than cooperative. She kept looking in the direction of the camera as if aware of the filming. At the end of the film, once he'd finished, she could be heard asking, "Will you give my things back now?"

He responded with one word. "Huh
?
"

Dozens of occupants had used the room since the shoot, contaminating any evidence that might have existed. Detectives concluded that he'd put the camera on the dressing table below the fixed mirror on the wall, probably concealed in a case or bag, with the lens facing the bed. A closer inspection would have revealed a disc shaped blemish in the lowest part of the mirror, patched up from behind with mirror film. If they
had
seen that, they might then have discovered the frame surrounding it unclipped at one end, allowing the mirror to slide, exposing the cavity, which housed the hidden camera and proof of the room's use for secret filming on many occasions.

No forensic evidence was uncovered, or at any other investigation scene either.

Kennedy finished reading his copy of the file on the Midnight Man.

He closed it.
The suspect remains at large.

He summoned Tanner to his office.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"What's the latest with the shop?"

Tanner could tell he wasn't in the best of moods. "The good news, which I think you might know already is that we caught a few scumbags, house breakers and muggers. We've nailed a few for receiving, busted a handful of druggies . . . The bad news is, we're no closer to catching this guy."

"Guy?" Kennedy regarded him with disdain. "That cuddly son of a bitch we throw onto a bonfire?" Kennedy held him in his sights. "You never have any good news, do you?"

"Well actually, sir, you might like to know that the second hand shop we ran in the High Street? We made a profit when we liquidated the stock . . ."

Kennedy shot him with a look that wiped the smile from his face, adding, "For someone so allegedly smart, the remarks you come out with are stupid at times."

Tanner followed up quickly with a theory. "You know I was thinking, sir, none of the stuff he's stolen has come to light anywhere. It could be he's got his own smelter at home, or maybe he doesn't do it for the money."

Tanner's last remark had Kennedy thinking.

"But why else would he do it? From what we know, he gets some gratification from the act itself, but he gets his real kicks playing with the victims afterwards, like he . . ." Kennedy trailed off, biting his lower lip in deep concentration. A small piece of the jigsaw looked like a fit; he tested it from a number of different angles.

"You were saying, sir?" Tanner prompted.

Kennedy held his hand up, indicating he didn't want his thoughts disturbed. Although they had known each other for a long time, Kennedy insisted that he called him 'sir' in the office. Outside of work, it was John, but Tanner called him 'sir' all the time, rather than risk forgetting. In the office, Kennedy allowed only Theresa and his superiors to do that.

Kennedy stared at Tanner, who shifted in his seat. "Sir, you were saying?" Tanner repeated.

Returning to focus, Kennedy said, "It doesn't matter. Have we checked out links with organised crime, what about Danny Lynch? He uses pubs and clubs as a front for all kinds of illicit activities – nothing there?"

"Nothing so far, Lynch has been squeaky clean for months, sir."

Kennedy scratched his chin. "That means he's up to something…" Looking at his watch, it was almost six o' clock.
Where does the time go?
"I don't know about you, but I could do with a beer, what do you say?"

Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, why not?"

"I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes. How are we getting on with the leads from Crimewatch, by the way?"

Chapter 49

When Melissa lost her job as a tenant liaison officer at the local civic centre, she wasn't unemployed for long. She remembered a promoter handing her a card at a carnival event, where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were twirling around on a float as it passed by. Also on board were Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra, Jackie and President Kennedy, they had one thing in common; they were all look-a-like impersonators.

She met the agent in a bookstore near the town centre, and he took her through the back, into the dingy office where he worked. The desk was a mess of paperwork. "Don't touch nothin'," he said, "I know exactly where everything is." He smiled, pretending to remember her.

"You know when I first saw you; I came back here, and I said to Manny, you should see this girl. She looks just like Marilyn, and she isn't even trying."

"Who's Manny?" she asked him.

"He's my dad, came over from
New York after the war . . . started this bookstore with my mom . . ."

"Are you an American?"

He leaned in as if divulging a secret. "Half-American when my dad's around and when I'm round my mum, half-English." He winked at her, pointed and made a gun cocking noise with his mouth. She noticed he switched accents halfway through the sentence.

"Can you get me any work?" She smiled, hoping he would say yes. He looked her up and down, and stroked his chin. "Hmmm, now that depends a lot on you."
She felt her cheeks redden. "Are you propositioning me?"

Taken aback, he blustered, "No, no, that's not what I meant at all." He coughed into his fist. "I was just saying if you were to pad your top out, or even better, have a boob job - I could get you
lots
of work."

Max delivered assignments exactly as he'd promised, and just as he'd said, after she had the enhancements, her career really took off. By this time, she'd created her own website and taken to calling herself, Marilyn Mooner.

It wasn't long before she found the more lucrative work for Monroe impersonators, but for that, she had to make herself available for private hire. Booked to appear at a party arranged by CID officers to make the fortieth birthday of one of their colleagues 'special', she was to sing one song, then mingle with guests afterwards. As she sang 'Happy Birthday to you', she sashayed towards the birthday boy, pausing twice on her way over to him, spreading her arms wide, making little up gestures with her hands, to rouse the guests into cheering louder. Literally making a song and dance of it, she pushed him down onto a chair and sat on his lap stroking his hair as she drew out the final line . . . 'Mr President'. The party went wild.

It marked the beginning of a torrid affair with the birthday boy, whose name was, by a strange quirk of fate . . . John Kennedy.

She also did appearances with 'Frank Sinatra', 'President Kennedy' and other impersonators. Hamming it up for other people's entertainment, she loved it. Soon, she mixed with people on the fringes of the performance world, getting invites to parties attended by B list celebrities. She loved the champagne and cocaine, the lifestyle and the glamour, and she discovered a love of money she'd never had before. It seduced her into surrendering her values, chipping away at them bit by bit.

She'd had a cheeky portfolio photograph of herself taken over a vent grille, trying to hold down her billowing dress. It was similar to the famous shot, except hers was more revealing, the billow allowed to float higher; the photographer captured that she wore no knickers in graphic detail. She carried the photo around with her to show prospective clients. Next to the breast implants, it was the best thing she'd ever had done. It catapulted her into the world of high-class escort girls.

As Marilyn, she acquired a number of very rich and powerful customers - she called them boyfriends - who lavished her with cash and gifts in exchange for favours.

Most of her boyfriends loved fantasy role-playing in varying degrees. Some took it further. There was one guy who liked to dress as Tony Curtis, another who used to croon Sinatra to her and of course Jack Kennedy himself
,
who loved nothing better than to hear her breathily singing:
Happy Birthday…Mr President . . .
as he lay waiting, expectant and naked on the bed while she strip-teased seductively. She'd slowly make her way to him, pausing only to pose provocatively, timing the words of the song,
Happy Birthday,
to end just as she went down on him, whispering to his cock.
"
Oh, Jack . . . what will Jackie say . . .?"

In a case of life imitating life, she also had an affair with a well-known gangster - Danny Lynch - who was under observation by the Serious Crime Squad

It was in this way that she first came onto the police radar. She came from a good background, and the DCI thought she was just a casual girlfriend of Lynch's.

She kept a secret file on her clients, a diary or dossier, in which she recorded names, dates, times, secret photographs, films and physical details that only close intimacy would reveal. It was her insurance policy.

Once she had enough money behind her, she intended to write her memoirs, she'd change the names of those concerned, and she would sell it to the papers. It was her pension. The way she spent money, she would need it.

Melissa always kept Thursdays free. She'd spent the day doing absolutely nothing but pamper herself. She watched daytime TV, read magazines and dozed on her bed. She wouldn't have planned her life this way, but she wasn't unhappy.

It was early evening before she finally rose. She cleaned the make up from her face, then showered, afterwards walking naked into the kitchen, where she poured herself a generous shot of gin and popped a couple of Mogadon. After all the dozing and sleeping during the day, she knew she'd be awake half the night, and tomorrow was Friday, her busy day. She wouldn't want to spend it looking a wreck. She decided to pop another one; just to be sure, she caught the sleep train first time around. The bitter aftertaste made her grimace. She padded barefoot back to the bathroom to clean her teeth.

In the morning, she wouldn't even remember getting into bed.

Chapter 50

March 1st 2007

Eilise Staples was groggy from the night before. It was still dark as the clock turned 06:30 a.m. Most of the camp were still sleeping; a few early birds had their lights are on. They bumped along, in and out of potholes, down the track, away from the camp. In the darkness, the headlamps played off rippling puddles, reflecting the light, sending it down the lane at crazy angles, in all directions. Her head still felt spaced out and woolly from smoking weed and heroin.

Wild bursts of wind drove staccato rain that spattered heavily against the tin walls of the white transit van. Watery machine gun bullets drummed in waves of sound that overwhelmed the creaking and banging of the metal body, masking the steady drone of the engine. The bodywork sounded as though it might twist off its chassis at any moment. One badly out of line headlight cut through the morning darkness, blinding the oncoming traffic. It attracted the occasional retaliatory flash from an angry driver.
On her last night in the camp, they were talking about the future.
No such thing as forever
,
nothing is forever, we won't be here forever . . . so you might as well enjoy it while you can.
They were always telling her that, and in the end, it was what made up her mind to move on.