Waterloo Sunset: A Lake District Mystery #4 (Lake District Mysteries) Read online

  ‘They rented, they didn’t buy.’

  ‘Even so, the landlord would ask for money in advance. Where would they find the cash? Tom never seems to hold a job down for long. From what Kay has told me, he’d rather stay at home with a curry, watching soccer on satellite TV, or go out to watch the trains at Lime Street Station while she’s out working her fingers to the bone.’

  ‘So they hadn’t won the lottery?’

  ‘Kay would have mentioned anything like that. She confided in me sometimes. Her mother was dead, you know, and she’d fallen out with her sister. I think she needed an older woman to talk to.’

  He nodded; Sylvia was a good listener. ‘What sort of things did she confide?’

  She drew away from him. ‘Woman’s talk, Harry. Private stuff.’

  About sex, then.

  ‘Nothing that gives you any understanding of why she was murdered, then?’

  ‘Good Heavens, no! Who would want to kill a nice girl like that? The murderer must be a maniac, that’s all I can say.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘It’s like a nightmare. Harry—what’s happening?’

  ‘The police will sort it,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt.

  ‘What did they say to you?’

  ‘Not much.’ This wouldn’t be a good moment to mention that Sibierski wanted him to provide an alibi. ‘They seem to think there’s a link with a couple of other murders.’

  ‘The woman who was found on Waterloo beach? And the other one, a few weeks ago?’

  He nodded. ‘Let’s wait and see. In the meantime, I’ll take good care of myself. Promise.’

  ‘You’d better, Harry. We can’t afford to lose you as well.’

  ‘You won’t be rid of me that easily, don’t worry.’

  She folded her arms, fighting for control. ‘So what brings you to my room at this time of evening?’

  ‘I wanted to check our personnel records.’

  A gallows smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had a sudden crisis of conscience about those overdue staff appraisals?’

  ‘I’d like to check our file on Grace.’

  She made a performance of consulting her wristwatch. ‘At this time of day? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Probably nothing. No need for you to wait. I have a spare key to the filing cabinet.’

  ‘Harry, you can trust me.’

  He gazed into her anxious eyes. Sylvia was a rock, but even rocks wear to sand. With Jim on the danger list, she had enough to fret about. He couldn’t burden her with his fear that Grace might not only be a part-time escort, but also the next target for a brutal serial killer.

  ‘The morning of the Borth inquest, Grace met the client for the first time. I had the impression that they knew each other, but neither of them said anything.’

  ‘What’s unusual about that?’

  ‘They seemed…I dunno, embarrassed? Unwilling to acknowledge each other. So I was curious to find out more about her background. Did we take up references?’

  ‘They were excellent. But what does that mean? References only tell you what the referees want you to know.’

  She led him into her room and unlocked the three-drawer cabinet where she stored confidential staff records and handed over a buff folder.

  He leafed through the documents. Agency terms of business, evidence of qualifications, and a two page curriculum vitae. Grace was Liverpool born and bred; after leaving school at sixteen, she’d studied at secretarial college and spent a couple of years travelling the world before starting work. Following spells typing for senior officials at first the University and then Merseyside Police, she’d spent most of her career working in the legal profession. Even before becoming a temp three years ago, the longest she’d spent in the same job was eighteen months. She’d worked in most of the law firms in the city, two of which had provided glowing testimonials, as well as the coroner’s office and the magistrates’ court.

  ‘She’s a butterfly.’ Sylvia’s tone made it clear this was not a good thing.

  ‘Maybe she likes variety.’

  ‘Maybe she’s looking for something she’ll never find.’

  Aren’t we all? Harry kept his mouth shut. His eye had been caught by Grace’s home address. 13 Oram Avenue, Waterloo.

  ‘You look surprised,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve raised a false alarm,’ he said. ‘Grace’s home is a quarter of a mile from Aled Borth’s. For all I know, she’s a regular at the Alhambra.’

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows, but slipped the folder back in its place and said nothing. He could tell she wasn’t convinced. Neither was he, really. Even if Grace and Borth might be neighbours, that didn’t explain why they’d been so shocked to see each other.

  ***

  As the lift doors closed on Sylvia, he went in search of Gina Paget. She was mopping the floor in the kitchen area, elbows pumping with a furious rhythm. She’d sprayed into the air a citrus fragrance so fierce that he almost choked. When he coughed, she gave a little gasp. She spun round to face him, her cheeks bright red.

  ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!’

  ‘Sorry. I meant…’

  ‘Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’ She wiped her hands on her overall. ‘You can understand why I’m jumpy. There’s been another, hasn’t there?’

  He knew at once what she meant. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The radio news only said a woman had been killed, but one of the girls says that the victim came to work here sometimes. Looked after plants.’

  ‘Your grapevine’s very efficient.’

  ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business, don’t they?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ As Sylvia said, you couldn’t keep secrets. How long before Wayne Saxelby started dining out on the story of how he’d rescued Harry from the balcony? He could imagine him bragging: tiptoed along like bloody Blondin, he’d have broken his neck if I hadn’t hauled him in. ‘Her name was Kay. How much do you know about her?’

  ‘I never met her. But one of the Lithuanian girls who works on the first floor has a friend who knew her.’

  ‘They were escorts?’

  ‘So your grapevine’s working too.’ Gina stabbed her mop into the bucket. ‘Don’t tread on that floor, it’s slippery. You could break your neck.’

  ‘Nowhere’s safe,’ he said softly.

  ‘The man who’s doing this needs to be stopped. They said on the radio that the police have brought in a top profiler. About bloody time.’

  ‘The profiler can’t conjure up a suspect out of thin air.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a suspect closer than we think.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She bent closer to him, and lowered her voice, although he was sure there was nobody else around. ‘The girls have been talking.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They told the supervisor they may go on strike unless something’s done about Victor Creepy.’

  ‘They’re not saying he’s murdered three women?’

  ‘Why not? He soaks himself in all this forensic bollocks, he knows how to kill without leaving a trace. They reckon that’s how he’s evaded detection all this time. You can take that look off your face, Harry Devlin. I’m not saying I go along with the rest of them. If I did, I wouldn’t still be at work here. But you have to admit, it makes a lot of sense.’

  He shook his head. ‘Victor has an alibi for the murder of Kay.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘You heard my partner Jim Crusoe was attacked last night?’

  ‘In the basement, yes. Mugged, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what happened.’

  She shivered. ‘Imagine, something so close to us here. Poor man, it must have happened not long after I left.’

  ‘Don’t you remember seeing Victor? He and a friend were here when Jim was discovered in the car park and stayed for the rest of the evening after the police arrived.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She didn’t seem thrill
ed that Victor was off the hook. ‘But you’ll never persuade the girls he hasn’t got something to hide.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Why does he guard those keys of his like they were the crown jewels?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear there’s some kind of security here.’

  ‘He’s obsessive about it. Even Lou’s duplicate set isn’t complete.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There are lots of things us cleaners know that you important bosses don’t.’

  That I can believe. ‘Go on, surprise me.’

  Her voice dropped to conspiratorial pitch. ‘Lou fancies our supervisor. She’d run a mile if it ever got serious, but it’s not a bad idea to make friends with the bloke on the desk. Lou doesn’t really like Victor. He says being interested in all this crime scene stuff isn’t healthy, though I suppose his real gripe is that he doesn’t like being told what to do. He even blames Victor for what happened to your partner.’

  Harry stiffened. ‘How come?’

  ‘He reckons it was Victor who fucked up the security cameras.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be difficult for someone with the right know-how. And Victor worked as an electrician for years, he says.’

  Harry didn’t know that. Again he realised how little he understood about the people he spoke to every day of his working life; even compared to a woman who cleaned here for a few hours each night.

  ‘These keys, does he keep them on him all the time?’

  ‘When he’s on duty, yes. When he isn’t, they stay in his flat.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the rack they hang on, on the wall inside the front door.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be fascinating if we could lay our hands on those keys?’ she breathed.

  When he nodded, she burst into laughter, as much from surprise as delight.

  ‘I can make it happen, you know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There’s a girl called Irena, she cleans the offices on the first floor. She’s Lithuanian and she doesn’t like Victor. I’m sure she’d help.’

  ‘How could she lay her hands on the keys?’

  ‘All we need her to do is borrow them for five minutes. She can make an impression and then put them back in their place. Victor won’t be any the wiser.’

  ‘But if he’s paranoid about security…’

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Irena’s an artist among shoplifters. You should see her wardrobe, she must be the best dressed cleaner in the North of England. And she’s never paid for a single garment. It’s like magic, what she does. Trust me, Victor will never know his keys have disappeared.’

  ***

  ‘Heard the news about the latest murder?’ Ceri Hussain asked.

  Harry swallowed the last mouthful of marinated Tuscan beef. Topped with flakes of Parmesan cheese. He’d never be a gourmet, but even he could tell that the food was excellent.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And you know the victim?’

  They had chosen a secluded corner at The Lido, a Venetian-themed restaurant overlooking the waters of Albert Dock. Waiters kitted out as gondoliers with stripey shirts and straw hats; on the table, red roses blooming out of a vase of Murano glass. Gaudy carnival masks hung from the walls, Vivaldi played in the background. Until now they had kept the conversation casual. Ceri looked good in a slickly tailored khaki jacket with a white vest underneath. He relished being with her, couldn’t help feeling flattered by the concentration she bestowed on him.

  ‘Her name is Kay Cheung.’

  ‘Tom Gunter’s girlfriend,’ Ceri muttered.

  He cleared his throat. Now for the tricky bit. ‘I ought to tell you, the police have questioned me about her killing. Officially, I’m a suspect.’

  In the flickering candle-light, Ceri’s expression was as sombre as when she brought in verdicts on the how, why and when of death.

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have told you before I asked you to have dinner with me. I don’t want to wreck your reputation.’

  ‘Never mind that, Harry. What are they thinking of?’

  ‘Kay asked to see me yesterday evening.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wouldn’t discuss it on the phone. We arranged to meet in Widnes, by the road bridge. Where she was killed. I turned up late because Farmers4Justice blocked the road, and she was nowhere to be seen. For all I know, the poor woman was already dead by then. Cards on the table, Ceri. Stan Sibierski suggested her rejection of my sexual advances drove me to murder.’

  ‘For goodness sake! I know Sibierski, he’s a buffoon. Pay no attention.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He gave her a crooked grin. ‘But feel free to leave now if you wish.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She hesitated. ‘Harry, I don’t want to break confidences.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, pricking up his ears.

  ‘Widnes falls outside my jurisdiction, but the rumour mill is working overtime. Ken Porterfield is always first with any news. He still has plenty of friends in the police. The story goes that they are linking this death to the two other murders. Denise Onuoha and Lee Welch.’

  He nodded. ‘Same m.o. Same signature.’

  She peered at him. ‘Do you know what the murderer’s signature is?’

  ‘He…cuts out their tongues.’

  He came close to gagging as he forced out the words. Nobody deserved to die like that. But Kay, of all people? He remembered seeing her that last time, doing what she loved, caring for the plants. When he thought about how she had been violated, he wanted to scream with rage. She’d trusted him, she had nobody else—and he’d let her down.

  Ceri spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear. ‘I gather she worked as an escort, like Denise and Lee.’

  ‘He forced her into it!’

  ‘Tom Gunter?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You can’t know that for certain.’

  ‘Nothing else makes sense. Kay was a lovely young woman. If it wasn’t for Gunter screwing up her life…’

  ‘There’s nothing you could do.’

  ‘I should have found out why she wanted to see me. If only I’d…’

  ‘Believe me, Harry, you can’t live by if onlys. If I ever doubted that, Ricky’s death made me sure.’

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Her husband’s suicide was still a raw memory for her. He mustn’t make it worse.

  ‘I hear Gunter has disappeared.’

  ‘You’re as well informed as Ken Porterfield.’

  ‘It comes from a lifetime of nosiness,’ he said, striving for a lighter note.

  ‘You obviously have friends in the police too.’

  He pushed his plate to one side. ‘Stan Sibierski isn’t one of them.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No problem.’ But even with Ceri, he wouldn’t be drawn. He mustn’t compromise Carmel Sutcliffe by hinting she had been indiscreet.

  ‘As for Gunter, Ken tells me that he has an alibi for the Onuoha case.’

  It didn’t mean much. Alibis were bought and sold in Merseyside all the time. Soon, no doubt, they would become a staple of internet auctions.

  ‘Provided by a friend?’

  ‘Harry, you’re a cynic.’

  ‘Years of experience, that’s all. I suppose Tom leaned on someone to cover for him.’

  ‘No, he did much better than that.’

  ‘Go on. Surprise me.’

  ‘Tom was in police custody when Denise was murdered.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly? In jail? Out wearing an electronic tag while he washed old people’s cars as part of his community service?’

  ‘It couldn’t be more straightforward. He was held in a cell overnight.’

  He swore under his breath. ‘What happened?’

  ‘An argument with a bloke in a pub escalated into a fight and Tom pulled a knife. A coupl
e of the other man’s mates knocked seven bells out of him and took the knife. The police were called and when Tom started being stroppy, they locked him up. He got off with a caution, but there’s no way he could have murdered Denise. The timings can’t be made to fit. If the same man killed all three women, you can be sure it wasn’t Tom Gunter.’

  ‘Could Tom have found out how Denise was murdered?’

  ‘Out of the question. The police have kept this very tight. There’s no way he could have known.’

  Her certainty was compelling. He felt his shoulders droop.

  ‘So Tom is in the clear?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Kay’s murder made sense as a dismal domestic crime. Her lover was violent, easy to imagine a quarrel getting out of hand. But if Kay was simply one more entry in a long list of victims, she’d lost her life through the most ridiculous of reasons. She’d found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. A place where she’d meant to meet him. Would it have been different if he’d set off earlier, if the Strand hadn’t been clogged with the demonstration?

  ‘Why would he do a runner, then?’

  ‘We know it’s a serial killing,’ she said patiently. ‘We know he has an alibi for the first crime. But Tom doesn’t have a clue. He’ll be holed up somewhere, probably petrified about what will happen to him, innocent or not.’

  Tom, in hiding and afraid? Maybe there was some justice. But not enough.

  ‘Which means we have to look elsewhere for our murderer?’

  ‘I don’t like this any more than you do. But the police have to face facts. A serial killer is at work.’

  ‘I gather that Maeve Hopes has been called in to contribute her expertise.’

  ‘Such as it is,’ Ceri murmured. ‘The professor and I spent twelve months on a committee investigating evidence in criminal cases.’

  ‘I bet that was fun?’

  ‘I finished up thinking she cared more about her own profile than any criminal’s. If the police are consulting her, they must be desperate.’ She ran a hand through her thick hair. ‘Sorry, do I sound like a jealous bitch?’

  He shook his head. She’d only drunk a single glass of wine, but he’d never heard her speak so frankly before. He hoped her candour meant she trusted him.

  ‘Of course not. I’ve never met the Professor and already I’ve formed a deep prejudice against her. As for the police, they have three murders to investigate. Three separate crime scenes. There must be loads of trace evidence. DNA, whatever. They will latch on to a suspect soon.’