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  "Oh it’s really pretty, you remembered my birthstone" she said, tipping her face up to his, as if she were offering him a reward for his generosity. He pressed his lips to hers, kissing her then breaking off to look at her.

  "Yeah well I got it for you, picked it out specially, cos I wanted to get you a present that meant something. I want you to be my girlfriend?" He looked at her hopefully, his arm resting on the smooth skin of her naked back. She looked taken aback for a second, then she recovered her composure.

  “Oh no, I can’t accept it,” her lovely face crumpled into an expression of concern, “it’s…it’s really sweet of you honestly. And don’t think I’m not grateful because I am,” she bit her lip.

  “ I just don’t want to be anyone’s girlfriend, not yet, not for a long time maybe not even ever.”

  The feeling hefelt then was akin to the time he was seven years old, and in the school playground at his junior school. Allan Tear, one of the older boys in the year above, had swung at him full force with a gym bag, winding him hard in the solar plexus. It felt like he’d been winded like that now, only this time the feeling was doubly painful, since the hurt could be felt not just physically but mentally too.

  She must have noticed his expression, for her hand flew to his arm, squeezing it as she leaned in to plant a kiss on the side of his cheek.

  "You're really sweet you know," she whispered, her pity only making the humiliation all the worse. He daren't move for fear he would cry. Hot tears stung his eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. Pushing her off him he shoved the open necklace box at her.

  "Just fucking keep it," he spat, as he ran from her room, tears blurring his eyes. He ran down the stairs, and out the front door, past the open door of the lounge, past her mother dozing on the sofa in front of the television, out of the door and down the little cul-de-sac where she lived.

  Down on to the main road he ran, across the arterial, to the dense woods on the other side. Through the woods he ran, his trainer clad feet pounding at the peaty, bark strewn floor. Only when he was sure he was quite far enough did he allow himself to collapse in a pile in a little wooded copse, allowing heavy tears of humiliation to fall, as he hugged his knees to his chest.

  It had been two days later that Sally had been killed, and he remembered thinking curiously to himself when he heard her body had been discovered, that he couldn't feel anything, nothing at all. While all around him everyone else seemed to alternate between shock and grief at the news, inside he just felt peculiarly still.

  CHAPTER SEVEN - DEACON

  Deacon sipped politely from the Wedgewood bone china cup, as he and Doyle sat on the blue velvet upholstered sofa in Mrs Brook’s front room. The room looked to have been recently decorated, the cream coloured walls had a newly painted look about them, and a faint odour of fresh paint hung in the air.

  The birdlike white haired woman sitting in front of them didn't much resemble the shapely blonde she’d been just over 17 years ago, when he had first met her. He’d been taken aback when he’d seen her.

  Well stress and a shock like that could age a person. God knows, since he'd been in this job he'd aged himself.

  "If you could just tell me what you know about the necklace that was found in your daughter’s satchel?" Detective Inspector Doyle urged her, leaning forward on the edge of the sofa, a loose strand from her no nonsense ponytail escaping and caressing her cheekbone.

  He trusted and respected Jenny Doyle as a colleague, but if he was completely honest with himself he'd always found her attractive too. At 5ft 8”, with an elegant angular frame, Nordic cheekbones, and thick wavy pale blonde hair, she was certainly striking to look at. He knew there was a spark between them but they had never taken it anywhere. Not even so much as a kiss, he'd always been faithful to Maria.

  Squinting Mrs Brooks looked off somewhere in the far distance. An absent minded look crossed her face as she opened her mouth to speak, her grey eyes misty.

  "The…the necklace it was given to Sally by one of her good girlfriends at the time, Louise, Louise.." her voice trailed off as she faltered, desperately trying to recall. He sat forward;

  "Please do try and remember the surname. It could lead to a vital clue, something we've missed, possibly even help us find a witness who might be able to identify your daughter’s murderer."

  The frail woman flinched. Shit, he thought, shouldn't have used such strong language, the poor woman was obviously traumatised and there he was, steaming in and making her live throgh an unimaginable horror all over again.

  "I'm sorry Mrs Brooks,” Doyle said purposefully softening her voice, and shooting him a warning glance. He knew he could be tactless at times but it was hard to hold back when a killer was out there.

  "But if you could recall it might shed light on both your daughter’s case and our current investigation as well,” she added gently.

  Nodding he interjected, “Mrs Brooks, as I mentioned earlier, and as you’ve probably read in the papers, we’re currently hunting a serial killer and we think the two investigations could possibly be linked. It's crucial we find and stop this man, whoever he is."

  "Randall," the woman said, allowing her lips to curl in to the merest of faint smiles, though her large grey eyes still looked sad.

  "Louise Randall, I remember her, she was a sweet thing, dark haired, always looked lost, like she needed mothering. I seem to remember she and my daughter were thick as thieves for a while Detective, she'd often come over here to see Sally."

  He scribbled the name down into the black moleskin notebook he always brought with him whenever he interviewed anyone. He didn't really need to since he knew he would remember it, it was the first real lead they had on the Brooks case, and possibly on Birthstone too.

  The girl must have told her mother she’d gotten the necklace from a girlfriend, perhaps Louise might have information on who had really given it to her? She might know someone else Sally had been associating with, a secret boyfriend, perhaps an older man, or someone else that her mother would have disapproved of. Whoever it was could have been the person that killed her, could be responsible for the deaths of the seven other young women too. Mentally he berated himself, he couldn’t quite believe they’d so easily overlooked this potential source of information in the initial investigation.

  Looking from him to Doyle, then back again, her eyes met his as she spoke.

  "Wh…when they returned the satchel with all Sally's things in it, that was found with her when, you know..." She took a breath steeling herself, "well, they did ask me about it but when I told them that one of her girlfriends at school had given it to her, they really didn't seem too interested in it at all." It was true he remembered now how they had dismissed the necklace as irrelevant when she had told them Sally’s girlfriend had given it to her.

  Doyle nodded sympathetically; "I see. And do you remember what Sally said to you about the necklace? I'm sorry to press you like this, I know it must bring back some very painful memories." The older woman sniffed.

  "It's quite alright Detective, I think I'm used to it by now,” she said, giving her a small stiff smile.

  "I remember Sally showing me the necklace because we were talking about her birthday which was coming up the next week. She showed it to me, it was her birthstone apparently, though I’m a bit clueless when it comes to all that sort of thing. But she seemed rather impressed by it because it was a pearl.”

  “Was Louise a very good friend of your daughters?” Doyle looked at her inquisitively. The woman nodded.

  “She came round here to see Sally quite a bit yes, I think they must have been quite good friends. Sally did say she thought it was a very thoughtful gift."

  Wondering, his brain tried to process things, no, it just didn't fit, it wasn't quite right. Oh the necklace fit the MO alright, but the giver of it certainly didn't. Sally Brook's killer was almost certainly a man, and the Birthstone Killer was male too or else he was the Pope. CCTV had been able to tell them that m
uch at least, though it hadn’t been much bloody help with anything else. He must be missing a piece of the puzzle, a piece Louise Randall quite possibly held. They needed to locate her as soon as they could.

  He sat forward.

  "Mrs Brooks are you quite, quite sure it was Louise that gave your daughter this necklace? I mean did Sally have any boyfriends you were aware of that could have given it to her instead?" he said, his brow furrowing, hoping desperately she would remember someone else. Another name, perhaps the name of the real killer.

  Raising her eyes to his, she looked at him, her gaze direct.

  "Oh Sally had lots of friends both boys and girls, she was a very popular girl Inspector. Everyone loved her, she always had people coming here to visit her. But I’m sure I would have known if she had a boyfriend and I’m quite sure Louise was the one who gave her the necklace.

  Doyle looked at her.

  “But how can you be so sure Mrs Brooks? I mean it was a very long time ago …perhaps you forgot?” The woman shook her head at Doyle.

  “No I’m sure it was the Randall girl because Sally told me the night before she was murdered that she had to return it at school the next day. She said she couldn't accept it because the two of them had had a falling out. I told her they would make it up I was sure, they seemed such good friends and Louise was such a lovely girl that I was certain it would all be alright.”

  His heart sunk. So the Randall girl had given it to her after all. But how did the killer find out about it? Perhaps the woman was confused like Doyle said?

  “And of course Sally didn’t get the chance to return it?” he pressed, hoping she would say she had. Wincing slightly she shook her head.

  “No. Sally was found… the necklace with her, and well that poor girl, Louise, she must have felt so awful when she found out Sally was….gone like that, “she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed, as if to block out the memories. He noticed the moisture forming in the corners of her eyes. Reaching into his pocket he felt for the spare pack of Kleenex he usually carried, and, pulling one out handed it to her, feeling rather guilty.

  She looked up at him gratefully.

  “Thank you Inspector. It must have been terrible for the poor girl, having an argument like that and then finding out-“”

  ”I’m sure Louise just remembered the good time Mrs Brooks. I’m sure there were lots of those,” Doyle interjected trying to placate her. Mrs Brooks nodded through teary eyes, giving Doyle a small smile.

  Still feeling guilty he tried to speak kindly.

  "Alright, well thank you Mrs Brooks. I really appreciate you talking to us today. I'm so sorry you had to relive it all over again, but what you've told us could help us catch and identify whoever did this to your daughter. We’ll be leaving you in peace now Mrs Brooks."

  She looked up at him through wet eyes, dabbing at her slightly reddened nose with the Kleenex.

  "It’s alright Inspector. If, if, it helps to protect other young women from what happened to my Sally, I'm glad to be of any assistance I can. She was a beautiful girl but she was kind too. Very gentle natured, everyone loved her.” She sighed, and took a deep breath, her lower lip trembling just a fraction.

  “Would you like me to show you both the way out?" Doyle waved her away.

  "No need to trouble yourself Mrs Brooks, I'm sure we can find the door. Thank you for having us again.” Following Doyle out of the living room he lifted his hand in a sort of half wave as he walked into the small hallway. Once they were outside the front door she turned to him.

  “Full steam ahead eh Gaine?” Shaking his head he grinned.

  “Shut it you. You know I had to ask.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a difference between asking and traumatising people.”

  “Oi I didn’t traumatise anyone.” She shook her head at him, smiling, as they walked to the police car they’d parked outside the house.

  “Sure yer did. The woman was nearly bawling in there.”

  “Oh give over, she wasn’t bloody bawling.”

  “Well tact never was your strong point I suppose. Must have been sleeping when we did awareness training that day eh?”

  He grinned again. “Piss off. Well we established one thing anyway.”

  “What’s that?” She turned to him enquiringly.

  “Randall gave her the bloody necklace. Which doesn’t help us out one bit.” Nodding, Doyle looked thoughtful.

  “Any ideas then?” she said, as they both stopped outside the car.

  Opening the door he slid into the passenger seat. Doyle usually drove when they went out in the field together. He looked up at her through the open door;

  “We need to track down the Randall girl. Maybe she can tell us who might have killed Sally Brooks.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT - BIRTHSTONE

  Making his way through the narrow crowded streets, he avoided over friendly drunks, and enterprising pedalo owners offering to ferry people spilling out of bars and cafes home. Pulling his scarf around his throat, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his tailored double breasted pea coat, eyeing the strip club up ahead, its name flashing luridly in neon.

  Sweethearts, it proclaimed, the pink letters looming out garishly, an animated graphic of a nude ample breasted woman bending down and then up again, flanking the words at both ends. He paid the £15 admittance fee to the bald headed burly doorman, who was standing behind the tattered purple velvet rope at the entrance, and was duly ushered through to a dimly lit, seamy looking corridor.

  “Straight ahead and then down the stairs” the bouncer nodded to him, motioning inside.

  After climbing down the small flight of steps, he emerged out in to what seemed to resemble a dingy, windowless basement, punctuated here and there by circular black raised podiums that were illuminated by the spotlight bulbs placed strategically around their base. Several groups of high backed, faded red velvet chairs were clustered around each podium. On the two centre podiums, two bikini clad girls, a blonde and a brunette, danced a well-rehearsed bump and grind routine, their slick, deft movements seeming a little too considered. Not that the assorted clientele watching seemed to mind all that much.

  He couldn't really see the other punters well due to the darkness of the room, he could make out a half dozen or so shapes slumped in various positions on the chairs, eyes glued to the undulating semi-naked female flesh centre stage. Various beer bottles and empty glasses were littered around on the low tables that were placed in front of every cluster of chairs, and, as if reminded, he looked about him to see where the bar was located.

  Spotting it, he made his way over to the poorly lit little area, illuminated only by the small neon sign behind the counter that rather aptly spelt out the word, Bar. The over made up blonde bartender gave him a stagey smile, her red lips parting briefly to show slightly yellowed teeth, the smile not reaching her eyes. Returning it politely anyway he leaned forward.

  “Could I have the drinks menu please?” The woman shrugged, gesturing behind her.

  "We don’t really have a menu. We've Stella on draught or bottles of Bud, Jacob's Creek white or red wine, Jameson's or Talisker Whiskey, or Gordon's gin.

  Oh and bottles of champagne are available for only £100 if you'd like to buy one to drink with one of the girls, " she winked, her lashes thick with mascara, thin, densely painted lips curling up, revealing sharp looking incisors.

  He pondered the selection for a moment before replying. "I'll have a Talisker on the rocks please," he said, adding quickly, "actually make it a double." Nodding in acquiescence, she turned her back to him to reach for a glass, as his gaze drifted again to the gyrating dancers on the stage. He looked over the honey skinned, tousled haired brunette, willowy and graceful with a ballerina's elegance and long, slender limbs. He reckoned her to be in her late twenties, her small high breasts barely covered by tiny triangles of what appeared to be some kind of wet look black PVC fabric.

  Shifting to the blonde, who was shorter at about 5ft 6” his ga
ze noted the platinum fall of probably artificially enhanced hair that cascaded over her shoulders, grazing her ample cleavage. He watched her as she swayed this way and that, her long false fingernails gripping the cold steel of the pole. A bright pink bikini top strained to cover her large breasts, which jiggled and bounced independently of her movement. They looked unexpectedly real, at least in this light and he wondered if perhaps they weren't the most authentic thing about her.

  She was smaller than he’d first thought, the pink patent spike heeled stilettos she wore on her high arched feet adding at least 6 inches to her height, and she appeared to be in her mid-twenties; though with all the make-up she wore she could easily have been younger. Pretty in that slightly tacky sort of way, all big eyes and snub nose, and her generous bee-stung lips looked like they were enhanced by something other than nature.

  She had the slightly jaded look of someone who had had experience beyond their years, and not all of it pleasant. Undulating before the assembled watching pairs of eyes, she wore a vaguely bored expression on her face. After accepting his drink from the barmaid with a curt “thank you”, and handing over a £10 note, waving away the change, he made his way across the room. Taking a chair in front of the blonde he sipped his scotch, his eyes appraising her as she eyed him in turn. Winking she bent low to jiggle her breasts at him, she must think he looked suitably well off. Or perhaps he just looked lonely and a potentially willing target for a tip?

  The gesture seemed automated, artificial, as if she were a modern day pedlar displaying some kind of exotic and precious merchandise out on a tray. Letting his gaze fall to what was being offered to him, he ignored the unnaturalness of the movement, as the hard bass thump of the music pumped through the club’s stereo system into his ears. Her smile widened, she was thinking she had him now. A good tip from this one, maybe even a private dance, a breast man, oh yes this would be easy.

  Sure enough, there she was hopping off the podium and making her way over to him, still dancing. Facing him, she bent forward to display her breasts again, this time giving him a view so immediate he could smell the spicy, musky notes of perfume mingled with sweat rising from her décolleté. Not wanting to seem rude or unappreciative he obligingly reached into his pocket, pulling out his black leather wallet and removing a crisp £20 which he held out to her. He’d made sure to stuff the wallet with notes before he’d come out. Money got you noticed in places like this, in a good way.