Dead Blonde Read online

  “Records Department, Met Recruitment office. What’s that then?”

  “The Super asked me to get an old file out for him, he wanted to look over something. Didn’t say what it was to do with.”

  “Ahh ok, Beeton poaching my officers again is he?”

  Barnes smirked, nodding.

  “Something like that Sarge.”

  He rolled his eyes. Beeton seemed to conveniently forget he was trying to run a murder investigation, though the fiery Chief certainly hadn’t held back from expressing his displeasure at the fact the investigation had yielded no significant leads yet.

  “Here look at this,” he said to the younger man, gesturing to the page in front of him.

  Squinting his eyes Barnes peered at the screen.

  “Birthstones by Month? You stuck for a birthday present for the Missus or something Sarge?””

  “Yeah, yeah,” he waved him away grinning, “look again.”

  Barnes obeyed him, his expression impassive as he read.

  “Look at the stones for each month.”

  “June, Pearl, July, Ruby, August, Peridot, September Sapphire?” Barnes turned to him with a quizzical look.

  “Ring any bells yet? Where have we seen some of those stones before?”

  The younger man’s eyes widened.

  “The stones round the vic’s necks?”

  “Exactly.”

  Standing up, he took a permanent marker from the pot on his desk, walking over to the whiteboard on the wall. Finding a space among the pinned up photographs and location maps of where the victims had been found, he wrote in bold, thick letters.

  The Birthstone Killer?

  Barnes looked up at board, raising an eyebrow.

  “The Birthstone Killer Sarge? You really think we’ve got some nut with a gemstone obsession on our hands here?”

  He shook his head curtly.

  “No exactly no, but it has to be meaningful somehow. And it’s all we’ve bloody got for now.”

  “But you can’t think that’s what the killings are all about surely? There has to be something more to it than that.” The younger man’s expression was fervent.

  Sighing, he regarded him shrugging; “Yeah, well that’s what we need to find out isn’t it?”

  Turning to the board again, he underlined the inscribed words heavily with the marker pen. Underneath he wrote the victim’s names, birthdays, and the corresponding birthstone they’d been found with; Tourmaline for Mya Chamino, Amethyst for Louise Wheeler and so on.

  Seven girls all dead, their throats slit by some kind of blade, most likely a knife. Most of the bodies left in prominent, fairly public places, meant to be discovered, to be seen. All were blondes, their hair, artfully arranged as if the killer were posing them. The only CCTV footage they had managed to unearth so far showed a shadowy figure, a scarf obscuring the lower half of his face. Impossible to identify. A killer who was out there somewhere, a murderer free to kill again. No DNA evidence that could be linked to anyone on record in the criminal justice system, and no real discernible leads.

  And the overriding question, the question that kept running through his mind. Why?

  CHAPTER TWO – BIRTHSTONE

  Body found in elevator next victim of serial killer, the headline screamed out at him, as he sipped his piping hot tea, the steam from the cup misting the lenses of his black, square framed eyeglasses. Peering down at the front page of that day’s Evening Standard, he eyed the photograph accompanying the pronouncement; a sweet faced 27 year old blonde, smiling out at an unseen photographer, unaware of her future fate.

  Smiling he noted the date, April 2nd. It had been a masterstroke monitoring her emails like that. One could find out all sorts of useful information that way. But it was time to find a new one now. How delicious. The hunting part was the most exciting.

  Pushing his dark hair out of his eyes, he looked through the glass window front of the small Soho coffee shop, observing the passers-by hurrying through the crowded narrow street, as they went about the minutiae of their daily lives. Some were sharp suited media types, looking for somewhere to sink a few beers after work to shrug off the day’s stresses. Others, were more casually dressed and in groups, arriving for an evening of revelry.

  Though a little overrated now, for various reasons the area still lodged in the public consciousness as some sort of social mecca, where vicarious and hedonistic thrills might be found. And even though the sleazy, sordid, gritty nightlife Soho had so been famed for in the past, had long been cleared out when the council swept away the last of the brothels nearing two decades ago now, people still seemed to flock here. Perhaps they wanted a piece of some imagined past glamour.

  Sitting there, he watched as a young blonde man strolled past the shop’s window, accompanied by an elegant looking, smartly dressed, older man. The two paused, eyeing the pastries and cakes that had been put on display by the store’s owner. The younger man, appeared to be in his early twenties, and he watched them both, as the blonde linked his arm through his companion’s.

  The older man smiled down indulgently at his younger paramour, and the two of them ambled off down the street, arm in arm. This was another source of Soho's exoticisms and charms to some. After all, where else could you see two men arm in arm or holding hands without them running the risk of being beaten up or at the very least publicly heckled?

  Pushing up the sleeve of his grey cashmere sweater, he glanced down at the face of his wristwatch, checking the time, and wondering if she would be late as was customary. Draining the dregs of his tea, he discovered the pot was empty. Motioning to the waiter to come over so he could order another, he drummed the fingers of his left hand on the wooden table top with slight impatience. He, of all people, should be used to her lateness by now.

  The waiter, a good looking twenty year old lad with short copper coloured hair and an impish grin, nodded and flashed white teeth at him, as he whipped away to fulfil the order, his carriage graceful as he turned around. He wondered casually if the lad was a dancer, something in the way he carried himself, and the slight turn out of his feet, suggested a dancer’s gait. Somehow the waiter reminded him of Carl, though he couldn't be sure why exactly.

  His thoughts returned to her again. She’d always hated him. He had stopped wondering why a long time ago. What it would be like to see her after all this time had passed? What she would think, would she still despise him? Probably. He was used to it by now. Used to her telling him she wished he were different.

  It had been a while, five whole years in fact, since he’d seen her last, though they had spoken on the telephone. So much had happened since they’d last met, it seemed like a lifetime ago now. He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was today, but somehow he’d achieved it, and now here he was, a self-made man. Literally.

  A young blonde woman walked past the window then, stopping to eye a particularly appetising strawberry cheesecake in the window. Looking up, she caught him watching her and smiled shyly at him. Returning the smile he tilted his head to one side, regarding her.

  Cat and mouse. Want to play my favourite game? They would pay. All of them. They would have to pay for what had been done to him.

  A tall dark haired man came up behind the blonde, laying his hand on her shoulder. Turning round, she embraced him, standing on her tiptoes to reach up and kiss him on the cheek. Young love. It was enough to melt even the coldest of hearts surely?

  If you had a heart that is.

  Sipping his tea, his lip curled in a sneer. Sentiment was the refuge of the weak. He'd come from nothing and been through hell. The years had been hard, had taken their toll. Perhaps not physically, for he knew he looked rather youthful for his 33 years, but mentally, certainly. The effort of merely surviving had taken every bit of strength he had. Survive he had though. He was a lone wolf.

  No thanks to her. No thanks to anyone. Well he would have his revenge on all of them, he would show them.

  The door to the little cof
fee shop burst open just then, disturbing his thoughts. Looking up he saw her. He had had a mad thought that maybe she wouldn't recognize him at all, at least not straight away. But as soon as they locked eyes it was obvious she knew who he was.

  They eyed each other, her mouth slightly agape as she took the sight of him in. He had often wondered what people meant when they used the expression jaw dropping, had thought it rather misused, but now here it was, actually happening, as she stood agog before him, in disbelief. Nervously he adjusted the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt, getting to his feet and smoothing his jumper down over his lean frame.

  "Mother," he said politely, holding his arms out awkwardly to embrace her, forcing his lips in to a parody of a smile, as he reached out to the woman who had brought him crying and howling in to the world.

  CHAPTER THREE - DEACON

  Deacon let himself in through the front door, as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Maria just in case she had gone to bed. The house was wreathed in darkness, and he couldn't hear the little digital radio she liked to play, while she worked in the spare room cum studio late in the evening. She must be already tucked beneath the covers, he thought, imagining her dark hair spilling across the pillow. She had probably tired of waiting for him to return.

  Shutting the door with a click he crept across the hallway making his way to the kitchen silently. Pushing open the heavy oak panelled door, he cursed under his breath as it creaked noisily, swinging open. Instead of the darkness he expected, the light was on, and he saw she was working at the counter top. Mixing up some kind of paste, or so it seemed, a half drunk bottle of Bordeaux by her side.

  She didn't turn as he entered, but he heard her mutter under her breath.

  "Oh at last the prodigal stranger finally returns." Or at least he thought that’s what it had sounded like, though he couldn’t be sure. He knew she must be angry at him if she was cooking, especially at this late hour. Maria didn't like to cook at the best of times. Crossing the room he encircled her from behind in a bear hug, kissing the top of her head.

  "Sorry sweetheart" he whispered into her hair, his arms around her waist, "I know I promised, but this latest case, it's, it's a real head scratcher and it's my bloody responsibility."

  Instead of placating her as he had hoped though, his apology only seemed to provoke her. Wheeling around to face him, he saw the temper flare in her dark eyes. Why she did have to look so irresistibly sexy when she got mad?

  "You and your bloody criminals, your murderers and rapists, you always have the time for them don't you?" She spat the words abruptly at him.

  "What about me, you're never here for me are you, what about us?" She stared at him accusingly, her face stony, defiant as she waited for his response. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  "I’m sorry sweetheart, I really am. I promise you as soon as this case is wrapped up, I'll make it all up to you, I promise you that."

  Shrugging her shoulders she shot him a pitying look. He'd not seen her look like that at him before, what did that mean?

  "Yeah, well that might be too late," she said, turning back to the mixing bowl, her tone flat.

  "What are you baking?" he enquired, peering into the ceramic bowl at what looked like a grey, formless, sludgy paste.

  "I'm not baking, I'm making an adhesive for a sculpture. Why don't you go to bed, your murderers will need you to be sharp tomorrow."

  He sighed.

  “Maria….don’t be like that…please?”

  “Just go to bed Deacon.” The tone in her voice informed him she really didn't want to talk to at all right then.

  He stood there for a while watching her mix in angry silence, her back stiff and rigid, her movements jerky and pointed. Realizing she wasn’t going to relent, he walked out of the room, sighing. Deciding he would get some sleep after all, he headed up the stairs to the bedroom they shared together, wanting to forget the whole argument. It would all be better in the morning, he told himself, shortly before he faded in to a heavy sleep.

  He woke with a start about four hours later, Maria gently snoring beside him. It couldn’t be past 6 yet, the thin rays of early morning blue light only just starting to filter through the gauzy chiffon that passed for curtains in their bedroom. The fabric had been Maria's insistence of course.

  "But it’s shabby chic," she’d protested, when he'd expressed his preference for proper curtains that would actually block out the light. She'd got her way though, as she nearly always had the knack of doing whenever he was concerned. Except when it came to him spending enough time at home.

  He closed his eyes, groaning inwardly, as he remembered the night before. It was her birthday next week. He’d swing by the jewellery store and buy the little silver and turquoise bracelet in the window she had been oohing and ahhing over the last time they had walked past. Buy her some flowers too, red roses, the plush expensive kind, the ones with the big velvety heads, she loved those. Make it up to her.

  It hit him then, all of a sudden, where he had seen it before. The necklace, the little gold chain with the stone suspended from it, which had been found around all of the victim’s necks. At least, he’d seen something that had been strikingly similar to it. Pulling his trousers on, he scrambled out of the bed hurriedly, padding as noiselessly as he could across the hallway.

  Opening the door to the small study, he flicked on the light, going to the mahogany desk where the computer stood. The desk had been his grandfathers, and he liked to keep it polished, keep the aged patina gleaming. He leant upon it as his fingers reached for the power on button, in order to boot the ancient machine.

  Outside of work he rarely used a computer, although Maria had a small laptop, but he thanked god for technology now, as he opened up the program on his desktop that would allow him access to the forces records. Remote working, the Super had called it, when they'd installed the program on the station’s computer system. He hadn't really understood what that had meant at the time though he was certainly grateful for in this moment.

  Sitting down with a plop in the battered but comfortable red leather chair positioned in front of the desk, he hastily punched in his ID and password. Clicking through the database he squinted intently at the screen, searching for the case file. The one that might be able to tell him exactly where he had seen the necklace before.

  CHAPTER FOUR - BIRTHSTONE

  “Hey Gippo!” The basketball hit him square on the nose and rebounded, dropping to the floor. Threatening him again as it bounced back up, he recoiled from it, clutching his face protectively. Fiona's aim had been accurate, her target his head, and she’d certainly achieved it.

  "Where do you live then?" She glared at him as she interrogated, her whiny arrogant tones demanding, as her beady eyes bore into his face. Her small, sharp ferret-like features creased in to a frown as she bounced the ball aggressively, once, twice, three times. Standing on the spot slightly stunned, he rubbed at the bridge of his sore, stinging, nose.

  "Well?" she urged, clearly not willing to take his silence for an answer.

  "It's a council estate isn't it? She sounded smug, satisfied.

  “No,” he tried to protest.

  “Yes it is, my Daddy said so, you live on a council estate you smelly gippo!" She threw the ball at his face again, her spindly limbs all sharp angles as she thrust her arms forward. This time he managed to dodge the ball, stepping deftly to one side instead, and putting his hands up to his face as he made a clumsy catch.

  He held on to it, not wanting to give her a chance to grab it and start chucking it at him again. But there was no need, as bored she turned and skipped away, her mousey coloured plait swinging from side to side behind her. Her retreating back told him she was finished tormenting him for now.

  He hated it here with all the rich kids, the kids whose mum's and dad's picked them up after school, in their Land Rovers and BMW convertibles. His family didn't even have a car, he was stuck waiting at the bus stop to get back to the council
estate. He despised his uniform for making him stand out by not being the required shade of blue. His parents couldn't afford the proper clothes from the official supplier, and he hated them for making him the odd one out. And he loathed the embarrassment and humiliation of having to buy his lunch from the canteen with the bright orange free school dinner tickets that marked you out as a pikey. Why couldn’t he just use cash like everyone else?

  Most of all though, he hated the way the other kids all looked down on him, because he was the weird kid and his parents didn't have any money. And if they weren't looking down on him, then they were mocking him or leaving him out of things. As the poor kid of the school he wasn’t allowed into the hallowed social circles to attend the pool parties and sleepovers of the rich and popular kids.

  It had almost happened once. In his first year at the school he had made friends with Carl. The two of them had bonded on the cross country field, while lagging behind all the others. They’d fallen in to step with one another, while Mr Phelps, their draconian PE teacher, yelled abuse at them to run faster.

  Carl, a solid looking boy with a pleasant face, sported a full head of curly bronze hair that reached down almost to his collar and a stocky, solid frame that would be described as pleasingly solid rather than plump. Their friendship, which had sprung from a shared hatred of torture posing as sporting exercise, quickly deepened into a relationship of mutual respect and shared banter.

  Carl's father was a lawyer who drove a silver Mercedes, and Carl lived in a big house on a tree lined avenue in the well-to-do part of town. But although he got a generous allowance from his parents every month, to spend on pretty much whatever he wanted, he wasn't a bragger and he didn't flaunt his wealth or his possessions. Those were two of the reasons he had liked and respected him so much.

  Soon the two of them were tossing light hearted jibes back and forth at each other. Joking around, making up silly songs. Both larking around, taking the piss out of arrogant Andrew Baxter, who liked to brag about his father being a diplomat. Just the usual way that kids forming a friendship bond.