Passion Killers (9 page)

Finn made no reply.

“OK, let’s go back to the beginning.” Banham was becoming irritated. “There were six women working with you in the Scarlet Pussy Club nineteen years ago. Ahmed Abdullah made pornographic tapes of those women, which came into your possession. You knew they would pay handsomely to get them back. But Shaheen Hakhti wouldn’t agree. She wanted to go to the police. So you killed her.”

Finn jumped up and banged his fist on the table. “That’s a lie! Till you said it just now, I didn’t even know Shaheen was dead.”

“Sit down, Finn,” Banham said wearily.

Finn subsided into his chair, obviously still riled. “You can’t keep me here,” he said. “I’ve committed no crime, and my mother needs me.”

“I can,” Banham said. “I’m arresting you for blackmail, and you’ll be held for further questioning in connection with the murder of Shaheen Hakhti. Caution him, sergeant.”

“We’ve got thirty-six hours to come up with something,” Alison said as they walked back to the incident room.

“I need the exhibits from the Abdullah case,” Banham said. “If the g-strings were the same, we’ve got him.”

“Could it be a copycat?”

Banham shook his head. “A copycat would be closer. Abdullah was choked, and the g-string left in his top pocket. Shaheen Hakhti’s throat was cut, and it was stuffed in her mouth. All the same, if the g-strings are the same, it’s enough to get us into court.”

“But possibly not enough to get a murder charge to stick,” Alison pointed out. “We need more. I’ll chase up the CCTV. If we can track the car...”

“It’s connected to that strip club,” Banham broke in, rubbing his mouth in his habitual gesture. “Why the g-strings, if it isn’t?”

Alison nodded agreement. “Who stood to lose if Shaheen Hakhti went to the police?”

Banham thought aloud. “Kenneth Stone for one. His career’s already on the line.”

“His wife too. And the vulnerable and gorgeous Katie Faye.” Alison wanted to bite the words back as soon as they were out; the wave of jealousy had taken her by surprise. But she decided not to back down; her opinion of the lovely Miss Faye was as much professional as personal. “You don’t watch
Screened
, do you, guv?”

“That hospital thing? You mentioned it before. I think my sister watches it. Why?”

“Katie Faye’s the star. She plays a sweet, clean-living staff nurse. She’s won awards – not for acting: people’s favourite, nation’s sweetheart, that kind of thing. That’s the image she’s built up. A pornographic video would ruin her. And it would probably cost Olivia Stone her marriage. The question is, how far would they go to protect themselves?”

“Ken Stone has a lot more to lose.” Banham pushed open a swing door and held it for her. “He knows the tapes exist, remember.”

Alison flicked her long mouse-brown plait over one shoulder. “That struck me as a tad strange,” she mused. “He was young, rich and affluent yet he frequented a down-market strip club like the Scarlet Pussy.”

“What’s strange about that?” Banham turned to look her in the face. “He was twenty-something and single; what was strange about liking to watch pretty girls undress? I’d call that pretty normal.”

Alison smiled to herself, but said nothing. Normally Banham would clam up and say zilch when this kind of subject came up; something had clearly changed.

“I think you should talk to Ken Stone again tomorrow,” he went on. “He likes pretty women.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I won’t wear stockings and a thigh-length mini-skirt, guv,” Alison replied dryly, delighted that Banham had hinted she was pretty.

He added, “Take Isabelle Walsh with you. All the men fancy her.”

Typical! He had to go and spoil it. She swallowed down the sharp retort that sprang to her lips and marched swiftly through the next swing door.

Banham was completely oblivious to his lack of tact. “With luck, something might turn up in post mortem report,” he went on. “And we’ll need to get a warrant to search Finn’s flat. Let’s try and retrieve the videos.”

“Crowther can do that,” Alison suggested. “The residents won’t give him so much grief. They dented the bonnet of my car with a brick today.”

“Better still if we could find more of those red g-strings,” he said.

“It would help if Crowther hadn’t fallen out with Penny Starr,” Alison said acidly. Penny was the head forensic officer, and her relationship with Crowther had gone on so long people had only started gossiping about it when it came to an end. “She was a great asset to us when they were an item; she used to work all hours if he was on duty too.”

“I didn’t know it was over,” Banham said. “Why have they fallen out?”

“It was yesterday’s main gossip,” Alison said, as the door to the incident room swung open.

Crowther stood the other side of it. “Guv,” he said. “I was just coming to find you. We’ve got another one.”

PC Judy Gardener was standing just behind Crowther, and beside her was an ashen-faced Kim Davis.

“Another what?” Banham demanded.

“Murdered woman,” Crowther said. “With a red g-string in her mouth. This one’s in Soho.”

Judy Gardener interrupted. “Her name was Susan Rogers. She’s another of Kim’s ex-associates from that Scarlet Pussy Club. She’s the one who was going to meet Brian Finn to hand over the blackmail money.” She paused. “Olivia Stone and Katie Faye found her. They called me instead of 999.”

“Do we know what time she was killed?” Banham checked the time. It was a minute or so to half past ten.

“I don’t know the exact time. A few hours ago.”

“How come it was Olivia and Katie who found her?” Alison asked.

“They went to her shop to see her. They rang Kim and me, and I put in the 999. That was a little after seven.”

“We’ve got Brian Finn in custody,” Banham told Judy.

“It was about eight-fifteen when we picked him up,” Alison said quickly. “Kim, why did Olivia Stone and Katie Faye go to the shop? I thought they’d already given Susan the money.”

“I don’t know.” Kim took a step closer to Judy and clutched her shoulder.

Judy slipped an arm around her lover. “Sir, all these women are in a terrible state. Olivia and Katie are still at the murder scene. The place is surrounded with press. Bow Street police are there. I told them to expect you.”

“Crowther, go and get Finn’s clothes off him and take them over to forensics.” Banham was already on his way down the corridor, Alison, Judy and Kim in his wake. Crowther skidded past him and set off at the run.

“Penny Starr’s on duty in forensics,” Alison called after him. “Be nice to her – we need a quick return on the tests.”

The sex shop was surrounded by a blue police cordon and a crowd of journalists and photographers. The uniformed PCs guarding the cordon made Banham and Alison wait while they took their ID through to the officer in charge.

Because the murder had only happened a few hours ago, the details hadn’t yet been put on the HOLMES computer; with nothing in the system to tie it to Banham’s case, he found himself making a lengthy explanation to a young skinny detective sergeant with long, straggly hair tied back in a ponytail. Growing more and more impatient, he waited for the sergeant to check with his own superior officer, who was held up on another case; then even more precious time was wasted waiting for clearance from his own DCI. Meanwhile the sergeant was enjoying the power he wielded.

Cameras flashed nineteen to the dozen as they argued.

“Is it true that the actress Katie Faye is involved?” a journalist asked.

“Can you ask her to come out for a picture?” another shouted.

“Is it true that Ken Stone’s wife is a customer in that shop?” This was a short, plump female reporter with mauve strands in the front of her gelled black hair.

The sergeant finally agreed to let them in, and Banham and Alison pushed their way through the crowd towards the entrance. When he reached the doorway, Banham turned to face the press.

“At the moment we have nothing to tell you,” he said. “When we know more, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, please let us get on with our job.”

A young WPC stood aside to let them through, her eyes widening as she turned to face the window display of crotchless knickers in a rainbow of colours, and condoms in a fruitbowl of flavours.

Inside the shop, Banham took a good look at the young sergeant, who had introduced himself as Sid Philips. He wore a worn brown leather jacket, and baggy jeans that sat on skinny hips revealing a little too much of his boxer shorts. His sparse ponytail was held by an elastic band at the nape of his neck.

The shop was a revelation. Banham noticed a large sign sellotaped to the wall above a display of contraptions like bicycle pumps with straps on either side. The sign said
Penis Extenders
. Below the display was a fan of mauve tiger-skin jock-straps.

He noticed Alison was staring at them in amusement; he only felt embarrassed, and wasn’t sure where a pang of envy came from.

“Where are the women who found the body?” he asked Sid Philips.

“They’re upstairs in the victim’s flat at the moment,” the DS answered. “They’re very shaky, and have asked to be kept away from the press. They’re both close friends of the victim, apparently.”

“Yes, we know,” Banham said.

“If I were you I’d leave them for a bit,” Philips said. His self-importance was annoying Banham. He fought an urge to remind Philips that he was the senior officer here; he had no wish to create friction between his team and the Bow Street murder squad. Neither inter-station politics nor oneupmanship interested him; he just wanted to catch the killer.

From the look Alison Grainger gave the scruffy sergeant, he deduced that she was as keen as he was to put him in his place, but she kept her mouth shut too. It was good to know they were thinking along similar lines.

“The victim’s through there,” Philips told them, waving an arm towards a room at the back. “Shall I take you through?” He led the way without waiting for an answer. “You’d better take a deep breath, darling,” he added over his shoulder to Alison. “It’s not a pretty sight, even for us. If you’re a bit...”

“A bit what?” she demanded.

“Female,” he smirked, looking her up and down.

Banham was feeling the pressure. If this was going to be a bad one, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of this cocky young sergeant. He weighed up whether to risk a look at the corpse, but Alison distracted him.

“Don’t you dare come at me with your sexist remarks,” she snapped. “And remember DI Banham is your senior officer.”

The lanky young sergeant fought to keep a smile off his face. “Just thought I should warn you, darlin’,” he said defensively.

“And I’m not your darling. Lead on.”

Banham stayed glued to the spot. Alison turned to face him, concern in her eyes.

“I’ll be through in a minute,” he said quietly.

She nodded, understanding. “Take your time. I can manage laughing boy.”

She followed Philips into the tiny kitchen, and the sight which met her stopped her in her tracks. She’d had nothing but black coffee all day in an attempt to shed a couple of pounds; it had been difficult, but at this moment she was glad her stomach was empty. She felt the coffee travel up into her gullet like a lift, then stop and drop all the way down again with a discernible thud. The relief that she wasn’t going to vomit warmed her veins as she stared at the unrecognisable figure that once was Susan Rogers.

The remains of a ginger cat’s head stuck to the dirty, flock-patterned wallpaper. Unimaginable body fluids had leaked down the wall on to the grubby, beige carpet with a great deal of blood; the headless torso of the cat lay stiff and blood-sodden beside the woman’s body.

Alison knew Banham wouldn’t cope with this. She walked back into the shop, where he was watching the blue-suited forensic officers moving carefully across the surfaces, tweezers or magnifying glasses in their latex-gloved hands, dusting surfaces for tiny particles which they carefully placed in little phials or plastic evidence bags for the lab. An exhibits officer was videoing from the doorway, pointing his recorder at the walls and floor and ceiling inside the shop, then following blood patterns into the kitchen where the victim lay.

Banham moved to take a closer look at a couple of blowup dolls with red cherub-shaped plastic mouths and no hair. They leaned by the glass counter that housed the till,
Reduced
signs attached to their bottoms. He turned to look at two mannequins, one modelling matching bra and knickers in a purple and pink leopard-print, the other a bright blue pair of skimpy underpants with a penis-shaped vibrator peeking over the top.

A few months ago, she thought, he would have been looking anywhere but at the displays, too embarrassed to admit he’d noticed them. Was this a sudden interest in sex, or a way of avoiding looking at the victim? A sudden thought crossed her mind: had he met someone since their catastrophic date before Christmas? She felt a sharp stab of jealousy. His excuse for ending their embryonic relationship was that business and pleasure didn’t mix; what if he’d met someone who wasn’t connected to the police?

She pushed the thought from her mind; there was no time for it now. Another woman had been murdered, and they had to interview Katie Faye and Olivia Stone again. She needed her wits about her; to her great surprise, Banham was completely taken in by these women. Katie Faye’s long silky blonde hair and big blue eyes gave her an air of innocence as false as Olivia Stone’s nails. And she couldn’t fail to notice that Banham couldn’t keep his eyes off Olivia’s full bosom. It was demoralising for a girl who wore a 32 A-cup.

Banham peeled latex gloves over his hands and opened the till. He looked across at her. “Forty pounds and some coins,” he said.

She took out her notebook and made a note.

“Guv?” She walked over to him, careful to keep her voice low. “I think you should give the corpse a miss.”

He stared at her, then without saying a word, turned and walked the few steps to the back of the shop.

Alison closed her eyes, unable to bear it. When she opened them he was gazing at what was left of Susan’s face and the mangled remains of her cat’s head, horror all over his face.

He turned away quickly and made a dash for the door to outside. A crowd of journalists and photographers still hung around, but he couldn’t help it; his body jerked violently and his stomach ejected what looked a pint of pig’s swill. The photographers immediately started clicking and flashing, and as if for their benefit Banham threw up a second time over the window displaying the crotchless knickers and fruit-flavoured condoms.

Inside the shop Alison went to the tap in the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Ponytailed DS Philips found it hard to keep the smile from his face. “Don’t you have many butchered bodies where you come from?” he asked, and burst out laughing.

“Don’t they teach you respect for senior officers where you come from?” she snapped back.

“Not my senior officer, is he, darlin’?”

“And my name’s not darlin!”

Banham was oblivious to the barrage of questions being fired at him. His mind was swimming with memories: his lovely wife, battered beyond recognition; his beautiful baby on her yellow bunny blanket, cold, dead and one blue eye staring.

“Guv.”

He blinked, and found Alison standing beside him holding out a glass of water.

He rinsed his mouth and spat, making a couple of reporters jump aside, then drank the rest in one swallow. Then he walked back into the shop. Philips stared at him, sucking in his cheeks. Banham looked him in the eye. “Sergeant Grainger and I are going upstairs to talk to the women who found her, and then I’m going to get them out through the back door,” he said. “I want you to call for more uniform back-up, and disperse that group of piranhas outside. And I want every detail of this murder scene kept confidential.”

Philips shifted uncomfortably. “Will do,” he answered. To Banham’s amusement Alison pinned a glare on the skinny DS. “Sir,” he added.

Banham nodded, but the brief moment of goodwill melted as Philips said, “Shall I ask them not to print the piccy of you throwing up? Sir?”

Olivia and Katie were waiting upstairs in Susan’s bedroom. Someone had started to strip the old wallpaper from the walls but a few stubborn shreds remained and the wall behind it was grubby and grey. There were two uneven stripes of paint across one wall, one bright raspberry pink, the other violet. Susan had clearly been trying to choose between them. Olivia and Katie were sitting on the bed, which was covered with a lilac and white floral duvet. Both nursed glasses of brandy.

There were no chairs, but a small white dresser with a matching stool stood in the corner.

As he entered the room with Alison, Banham nodded to the uniformed officer inside the door. The officer left, and Banham sat beside Katie on the bed, leaving Alison to perch on the dressing table stool with her notebook.

“How are you feeling?” Banham asked.

“How do you think?” Olivia said sourly.

“Terrified,” Katie added, with a nervous stare from under her fringe.

Alison looked coldly at her. Katie needed to know that not everyone was taken in by her blue-eyed innocence.

“We’ll need to ask you to account for the time from when you left home until you arrived here and found Susan,” Alison said, “as precisely as you can.”

“I don’t even know what time it is now,” Olivia answered. “I think my brain stopped working when...” She gestured with the brandy glass.

Alison looked at her watch. “Mine says the same as yours: ten minutes to twelve.” She pointed at the diamond Cartier on Olivia’s wrist.

Banham’s tone could have been meant for a sick child. “In your own time, tell me what you remember, starting when we left your house, until the police arrived here.”

Katie gave Olivia a pleading look. “Ken was in a terrible state after you told us about Shaheen,” Olivia said quickly. “He’s desperately worried – you know the effect bad publicity has on government ministers.”

Alison looked up from her notebook and caught Banham giving Katie a reassuring smile. Olivia carried on. “Anyway it turned into a row, and he stormed out.”

“Olivia and I wanted to talk to Theresa and Susan about Shaheen,” Katie said, looking down into her lap. “We were nervous for their safety. Judy had already told Kim. But...” Her voice faded and she looked at Olivia, who picked up the story.

“We couldn’t get an answer from Susan on the phone –”

“What time was this?” Banham broke in.

“I’ve no idea. Have you?” she asked Katie.

“I think it must have been between seven and eight. Perhaps earlier. We were worried about Susan meeting Brian alone,” Katie said, batting the blue eyes again. Alison carried on scribbling. “She had the blackmail money, and she was going to phone him. We wanted to tell her to take someone else with her. It was too dangerous alone.”

“But then we were worried that if he didn’t get the money he might hand those videos over to the press,” Olivia said anxiously. “Imagine the headlines!”