infused with her own blood.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Slave. ‘Do we know?’
‘In a mental institution for the insane,’ replied the WPC shaking with anger. ‘Why bring up the French case, anyway?’
‘I noticed DC Wells is on the Eiffels.’
‘Eiffels?’
‘French cigarettes.’
‘Oh.’ She had calmed herself down but her concern for the French female had not gone unnoticed by Slave:
‘Right, Kate. We have nothing on this “wigged tart”, as you’ve chosen to call her, so shall we take a look at the French case?’
‘We can?’
‘Would you be an angel and fetch me the case file?’
She retrieved the file.
‘Marielle de Winter,’ she said, ‘came to this land with her husband to celebrate their first wedding anniversary ... What a mistake! “Come down to coast. Have a few laughs,” she mocked, stealing a sarcastic line from the movie Die Hard. ‘No witnesses and no CCTV.’
‘Cheapskates,’ added Slave. ‘How much does CCTV cost these days?’
‘A lot less than the man-hours we spend trying to do it the hard way, I can assure you.’
‘Didn’t DC Wells interview her husband?’
‘Let’s take a look.’ She flipped the pages. ‘Yep. DC Wells.’
‘Yes, I remember now,’ said Slave. ‘He begged me for the chance to go it alone with the interview. I had a few questions to ask her husband myself but I left it to Wells, it was his show ... What was the husband’s name?’
‘Monsieur Athos de Winter, a wealthy Parisian. How could I forget a man with so much Va-Va-Vroom,’ she purred.
‘He was hardly David Ginola, Kate, more like Clouseau.’
‘Jealous, sir?’
Slave blushed. ‘Nonsense. Why should I be jealous of a ...’
‘Frenchman?’
‘Yes. Anglo-Francáis: the distance between us is immeasurable.’
‘About thirty-odd miles, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Dover to Calais.’
‘Oh yes,’ he laughed. In an occupation that relied on the presence of criminals to justify its presence, a colleague with a sense of humour was a valuable friend.
‘So, where do we start, sir?’
‘Start by making a list of local gangs, violent ones, like the Torbay Tyrants and Brixham Bashers. There’s plenty out there. Call a few informers; see who’s who, and who’s in what. I’ll make a list of sex offenders; we’ll cross-reference the two and see what we come up with.’ The WPC beamed like a Driving Test student who had just burnt her L-plates.
Saturday night was on par with a Friday: Scantily dressed women danced in nightclubs steaming with male testosterone. Those who were refused entry, or had spent their taxi fare on a few drinks more, staggered home under the atmospheric glow of amber street lamps:
‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from a darkened alley. A pair of young ladies in their little black dresses giggled at the entrance. ‘Come here, I need a light.’
‘No chance,’ giggled one. ‘You come out here.’
‘Come on, ladies,’ sung the unseen man. ‘I know what you look like. Especially you, Missy Wirren.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
Her friend grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Lucy, we’re leaving.’
‘No!’ She shrugged her off. ‘I am not leaving until he explains himself. Creep!’
‘Well, I’m going home,’ whispered her drinking-buddy with a goodnight kiss. ‘It’s freezing. You always were attracted to weirdoes!’
As the sound of stilettos departed, the bravely stupid Ms Wirren stood her ground, edging cautiously into the alley. ‘What did you mean by saying that you’ve seen me?’ She closed-in slowly as her endeavour to catch a glimpse of the man’s face became frightfully more important than the welfare of her own safety.
‘I've seen you many times, Missy,’ he breathed. ‘You really must get some curtains: the view of your bedroom from the rear garden leaves nothing to the imagination.’
Her eyes had accustomed the dark, catching sight of his lewd activity:
‘You sick, mother—’ He pounced; her scream quickly cut short by a heavy blow to her unblemished face. She fell to the floor. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers as she moaned in pain.
‘Slut!’ he spat. Her nose cracked under a quick succession of massive blows. ‘Slut! Fancy parading around in your bedroom in all your glory for the whole world to see!’ He ripped-off her G-string and forced himself upon her …
‘Basically, Sir,’ said Babb serving him another coffee, ‘you are saying that because Madame de Winter refused to be examined after the rape, the case is a non-starter?’
‘No … I just think it’s going to be a tough one, that’s all. Read the psychologist’s report: The woman was beyond repair. The doctor supported his claim by saying that he couldn’t go within ten yards of Madame de Winter without her turning into an anxious, screaming wreck. She locked herself in their honeymoon suite whilst her husband made a statement on her behalf.’
‘With DC Wells.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What happened to Madame de Winter’s clothes? – the items she wore on the day of the rape.’
Slave pulled-out a report from the file: ‘Her items of clothing were sent to the lab for analysis.’
‘What were the results?’
He scanned the page, seemingly at a loss. ‘Tests were carried-out, but for some unknown reason, the results are not attached.’
The telephone rang. ‘Inspector Slave’s office,’ answered Babb. ‘Yes ... Yes, he is. Do you want me to get him for you?’ She looked towards Slave as the caller had his say. ‘I see ... No, you’re right, he won’t be pleased ... Yes, I will tell him. Thank you.’
‘Doesn’t sound good, Kate?’
‘White male, mid thirties, found dead in an alley at the rear of the Nine-One-One Club. ‘The female, however—’
‘Female?’
‘White woman, late teens, severe blow to the head ... Do you think she could be our tart?’
Slave picked up his car keys. ‘Would you carry-on here?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a good woman.’
‘And as a Detective, sir?’
‘Even better.’
Slave pulled up at the rear of the Nine-One-One Club. PCs Ashby and Moore, again, unfortunate to be the first on the gruesome scene.
‘Witnesses, Ashby?’
‘No, sir. And before you ask; no CCTV either.’
‘Who’s the dead gorilla?’
‘Terry Ashore, a member of the Torquay Taliban.’
‘Never heard of ‘em … And the woman?’
‘Lucy Wirren.’
Slave crouched over her body. ‘Who called it in?’
‘Anonymous, sir. He called the Paramedics but it was too late. She had lost too much blood .’
‘He called it in?’
Slave arrived at the station early the next morning to find WPC Babb sat at Wells’ desk, busy tapping away on the keyboard.
‘Morning, Kate. A bit keen, aren’t we?’
‘Good morning, sir,’ her concentration unbroken as she picked the brain of the police computer. ‘Chief Superintendent Fleetmac told me to inform you that he has a few TV appearances this evening and that he needed an update on the murders. Apparently, everyone wants a piece of him at the moment.’
A shrill whistle, like a songbird on heat, made its way up the stairs towards them.
‘Someone’s cheerful.’
‘Ah,’ said Slave as the whistler made an entrance. ‘Mr Wells. How are you feeling, today?’
The sick-note DC failed to win an Oscar with his false sniffs and snivels:
‘I made the effort to report in for duty, sir, but I can’t guarantee I’ll last the day.’ He was surprisingly unconcerned about losing his desk to Babb.
‘Nothing contagious, I hope,’ remar
ked Slave with a wink at Babb. Wells handed him an envelope. ‘What’s this?’
‘My resignation, sir.’ Babb pulled her eyes away from her VDU.
Slave walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? How will you pay the mortgage? You’re constantly claiming poverty as it is?’
‘I’m not feeling too well,’ he replied, wiping his brow.
‘I’ll run you home,’ said Slave. ‘We can have a chat on the way.’
Driving through the streets of B&Bs, Slave tried the tested “Concerned Boss Routine” but Wells was adamant in his decision to leave. He gazed out of the window and laughed.
‘What’s up?’ smiled Slave.
‘Cheap souvenir shops against the breathtaking backdrop of the Bay. It’s so typically British.’ He wound-down his window and filled his lungs with the fresh sea air.
‘You talk as though you are going to miss it, Wells.’
Heading back to the station, Slave remembered his earlier days in Serious Crime, and how it took him almost a year to hold down his favourite meal of liver and bacon after a murderous day at the office.
With the police station car park full, he pulled up outside, taking the opportunity to rid his vehicle of accumulated litter.
‘Crisps packets and two-pence pieces,’ he moaned to himself, filling his second carrier bag. ‘Every car has got them tucked away somewhere.’ He picked-up a small, square piece of paper and scanned its content. ‘My word!’
Suddenly, he leapt out of his skin as a traffic cop gave a short blast on his American-style siren. Uninterested in the vacant space and equipped with the small, square piece of paper, Slave drove off.
From an upper window, Babb had seen him come and go.
47 Hatchfield Terrace, Torquay:
Slave rang the doorbell. He rang again.
‘Oh ... Good morning, sir.’ Wells was dressed in a red silk gown.
‘Got