The Ladykiller (8 page)

Amanda sat down opposite her.

‘Well, we’re gradually collating all the door-to-door info. The thing with this type of inquiry is that everyone with a grudge against their neighbour tries to implicate them.’

‘I know. The thing is that for every five hundred screwball accusations, there are normally one or two that are worth following up.’

‘Drink your coffee, ma’am. Before it gets cold.’

She grinned.

‘Call me Kate. I only threw my weight around yesterday because I am getting heartsick of this lot.’

She waved her arm in the direction of the male CID staff.

‘Bloody load of know-alls they are. Well, I’m going to make myself felt and heard from now on. I tried the friendly, tactful approach and it didn’t work.’

Amanda grinned, showing crooked white teeth.

‘This lot have never had a woman in charge of them before. It’s galling for them, to say the least.’

Kate sipped her coffee.

‘Shall I tell you something, Amanda?’

The girl nodded, a slight frown on her face at the other’s tone of voice.

‘I don’t give a toss what they think. If they give me any more hag, they’re off the case. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to set the rumour flying. Know what I mean?’

Amanda giggled.

‘I know exactly what you mean, ma’am.’

‘Kate.’

‘Sorry, Kate.’

‘That’s better. Now then, let’s get this show on the road because I have a feeling that this murder was only for starters. Whoever did it is getting ready for the main performance, and I want to find him before he does any more harm.’

Kate’s serious intention communicated itself to the younger woman. Amanda nodded at her boss, glad that she was going to be working with her and not one of the male officers.

DS Spencer was watching the two women. He sighed. Nudging his friend DS Willis, he poked his head in their direction, a frown on his ruddy face.

‘Looks like the Dolly Sisters are getting better acquainted.’ His voice was disgusted.

Willis shook his head in exasperation.

‘Oh, give it a rest, for Christ’s sake. She’s in charge and that’s that. Let’s just put all our combined experience together and find the bloody nutter who’s on the loose.’

Spencer’s face closed up.

‘Oh, yeah, of course. I suppose your experience with shoplifters and vandals will be invaluable, won’t it?’

Willis coloured slightly. He had not been a DS for long and this was his first big case. No one else had mentioned this fact except Spencer. But what more could he expect from the man? He was the most ignorant, bigoted and self-opinionated officer in the whole of the division.

‘Well, thanks for the little reminder, Spencer. All this new empathy policing should be just up your street, I reckon. Since we’re obviously looking for a complete and utter pratt, we can all just follow your line of thinking, can’t we?’

Spencer looked as if he had been slapped across the face. ‘You cheeky little bastard!’

Willis grinned. ‘And you’re a miserable old bastard. Know your trouble, Spencer? You never got further than DS, did you? Well, if you listened to yourself sometimes, you might find out why.’

Willis walked away, leaving Spencer open-mouthed with astonishment and rage. But against his will a phrase sprung to mind which he could not ignore: The truth hurts.

How many times had he said that to other people?

Too many.

He forced his mind back to the case, looking at the blown-up photograph of Geraldine O’Leary on the wall.

It was one of the pictures taken in the morgue. Her greying face with the splintered nose was pinned up beside another smaller photograph taken a few months previously by her husband. In it Geraldine was laughing, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She looked what she was: a beautiful young wife.

Spencer shrugged. Willis was right about one thing. The man who murdered her had to be caught, and fast. Before he struck again.

Chapter Four

1948

The two small boys walked fast. Driving rain was pelting into their faces. The smaller of the two had red-rimmed eyes and had obviously been crying. A large clap of thunder boomed overhead, followed by a flash of lightning that lit up the sky.

‘Come on, George, for Christ’s sake.’ The bigger boy began to drag his brother along by his coat sleeve. As they turned into a small cul-de-sac George tried to pull away.

‘I’m not going in there. I mean it.’

Joseph sighed loudly and faced his brother. He did not like the job he had been given. In his heart of hearts he couldn’t blame Georgie for running off, but their mother’s word was law. He looked into the terrified little face before him.

‘Look, Georgie, the sooner you get in there, the sooner it will be over. Now come on.’

He resumed dragging him along the pavement until they came to the house they both lived in. In the dark stormy light it looked sinister. The brickwork was stained black and the front door, even with its polished brass knocker, looked dingy. Joseph pulled his brother up the garden path and banged the knocker hard. The door was opened almost immediately by a mousy-haired girl of fifteen. She looked at her youngest brother with tenderness.

‘She’s a bit quieter now, George. Hurry up out of your wet things.’

They walked into the hallway and he pulled off his wet coat slowly. His heart was hammering in his chest. The house always seemed to smell of cabbage; the odour hung on the air, making him feel sick. It mingled with the smell of beeswax polish, and the heaviness of it burned his quivering nose.

‘Is he gone?’ Joseph’s voice was a whisper.

The girl shook her head.

‘You go on upstairs, I’ll take Georgie in.’ The brother and sister looked into each other’s eyes. Joseph turned away, unable to face his sister any longer. He forced himself to smile at the little boy beside him.

‘I’ll wait upstairs for you. Micky Finnigan gave me some comics yesterday. You can read them after me if you like.’

Georgie nodded and swallowed deeply. His grey eyes seemed to have taken possession of his whole face.

‘Pull your socks up, Georgie.’ He did as he was told. Clumsily he dragged the thick woollen garments up his shins. The three stood stock still as they heard a movement from the front room. Then Joseph ran lightly up the stairs as if the devil was after him. George felt his hands begin to tremble as the front-room door opened and a harsh light fell across him.

‘So you’re back home, are you?’ His mother’s voice was hard and low. She held the door open for him and at a little push from his sister he walked through. His mother’s fist hit him in the back of his head and sent him careering into the room.

‘Mum . . . Mum! Don’t hit him, Mum!’

Nancy Markham turned to her daughter. ‘Get upstairs now, before I give you more of the same.’

George lay on the cold lino, terrified. He watched as his mother knelt beside him and pushed her face close to his.

‘Run away from your mummy, would you, Georgie boy?’ She entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled his head towards her.

‘Where was you running off to this time?’

The child’s trembling communicated itself to her. She brought her red-stained lips back over her teeth and then, closing her eyes, began to lay into him. His skinny little body was unable to cushion the ferocious punching and he lay with his hands covering his head.

Upstairs Joseph lay listening to the muffled sounds of his brother’s beating. His mother’s foul-mouthed shouting reaching a crescendo.

Nancy stood up, her breathing laboured. ‘Now you go and apologise, Georgie boy.’

The child was sobbing, every so often gulping large draughts of air into his aching lungs. His nose had a thin trickle of blood running from it. He stood up unsteadily, grabbing the table for support.

‘You heard me, boy!’ She slapped the child hard across the face. He stumbled from the front room and through the connecting door to the kitchen.

He felt his mother stand close behind him and looked into the big man’s face.

‘Don’t you worry, Bert, I’ve given him such a larruping he won’t be so quick with his tongue in the future.’

The man looked at George with tiny dark eyes. The boy could smell the rancid odour of stale sweat and swallowed down the urge to vomit. The man’s belly was quivering as he moved to make himself more comfortable in his seat. His string vest was stained with tea and food. George tried to concentrate on the man’s red-veined, bloated face.

‘He ain’t saying much, Nance. What’s the matter, you little bastard? Cat got your tongue?’

George bit on his lip for a second.

‘I’m very sorry . . . I’m sorry.’

Nancy Markham put her face so close to her son’s he could smell her breath. ‘You know what else to say, Georgie boy.’

He swallowed and took another deep breath. ‘I’m sorry . . . Dad.’ The last word was barely audible.

‘Speak up, lad.’

‘I’m . . . sorry, Dad.’

The man saw the hatred in the child’s eyes. It was unmistakable. For one second he felt frightened, then pulling himself together he grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. This little runt was no more than five stone! He screwed up his eyes and made himself look as ferocious as possible, wanting to intimidate the child.

‘You remember to call me that, boy.’ He poked his finger at George. Then he looked at Nancy and bellowed: ‘Where’s me fucking tea, woman? Get this little shit out of me sight and get yourself sorted!’

Nancy pushed George out of her way and stood in front of the man.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Bert Higgins . . .’

He pulled his enormous bulk from the chair and brought his fist back.

‘You want a right-hander, Nance, or what? You might be able to sort out little kids but don’t ever think you can order me around!’

George watched his mother’s face as she battled with herself as to whether to carry on fighting or whether to retreat. As usual her fighting temper came to the fore and George bolted from the room as her hand went to the teapot on the table and she flung it at Bert.

George took the stairs two at a time, his injuries forgotten in the panic to get away from them. He rushed into the bedroom he shared with Joseph, straight for his sister’s arms. He began to sob again as he heard the crashing from below. Edith caressed the short-cropped head, wincing every time a loud crash thundered up from below. She saw Joseph lying on the bed staring at the ceiling and felt a sense of futility.

‘Oh, please God, make them kill one another. Please make them both die.’

Her anguished voice was muffled with tears. Since Bert Higgins had moved into the house eighteen months earlier their lives had been even more disrupted than usual. Nancy had found in him a bully who was even more violent than she was. They had been alternately loved to death or beaten within an inch of their lives ever since they could remember. But since the advent of Bert, things had gradually grown worse. Their mother had never been stable; now she was positively deranged. Her main outlet for her frustrations was George. Edith did her best to keep him from her mother’s rages but lately it was getting more and more difficult. Bert drank, her mother drank, and the children, mainly George, took the brunt of it. Edith had been given the task of cleaning the house. Nancy Markham had pretensions to respectability, even blind drunk.

All three stood rooted to the spot as they heard their mother running across the front room and out into the hall. Her heavy footfalls on the stairs were followed by Bert’s.

‘Talk to me like that, would you, you slut? You bloody big fat slut!’

‘Take your filthy hands off of me, Bert Higgins, I’m warning you now.’

They listened to the scuffle on the stairs and then heard a thud and all went quiet. The three looked at each other in consternation.

‘Nancy? Nance?’ Bert’s voice was low and filled with fear.

Edith pushed George from her and ran from the room.

‘Oh my God!’ She ran down the stairs and pushed Bert roughly away. Her mother was lying sprawled on the stairs, her head bleeding profusely from the temple.

‘I never meant it, she fell and hit her head.’

Edith ignored the man and examined her mother. It was a flesh wound. As she peered at it, Nancy’s eyes opened and she pushed the girl away from her.

‘Get away out of it, you.’ Joseph and George stood at the top of the stairs dumbstruck.

Nancy put her hand to her head and brought the fingers away blood-stained.

‘You bastard! I’m bleeding.’

‘Look, Nancy, I’m sorry. Honestly, darlin’, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, you know that. I could cut me hands off.’

Edith walked slowly up the stairs. She knew she wasn’t needed any more. It was the same thing over and over again. No worries about Georgie who would be bruised for a week or ten days, and who would get another hiding between times. No concern for Joseph who was getting iller and iller with his nerves each week. Not a thought for Edith who had to keep everyone together. Let’s just worry about Mummy and her bloody head. A bloody head she asked for, to all intents and purposes.

‘Come on, you two.’ She pushed the two boys into the bedroom and closed the door.

A while later the three heard Bert and their mother enter their own bedroom and the squeaking of the bed springs and loud groans that heralded their making up.

Chapter Five

23 December 1989

Mandy Kelly pulled her coat tighter across her breasts. It was freezing. Her toes in her flat-heeled boots had already gone numb. She would murder Kevin when he finally arrived. She looked at her watch again. It was eight fifteen, he was a quarter of an hour late. She stood by the light of the phone box and stamped her feet. She wouldn’t mind but he had her car, and if she got a taxi her father would guess immediately what had happened and then all hell would break loose. Plus it was Saturday night and they were supposed to be going out to eat with her father and his new girlfriend. Well, she had to be honest, she wasn’t worried about missing that so much, but her father would be upset. Sod Kevin! He always did this to her.