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“Probably drugs,” Bob Anderson pointed out. “You know what prostitutes are like. Granted, a lot of them do it to make ends meet. They don’t want to. But to the rest of them it’s all about the money. The more outrageous you are, the more money you get. Maybe the syringe and the bayonet were all part of what she was into.”
Bob Anderson was a solid, dependable officer who could always rely on in a crisis. His frame was bulky, and he was balding, some hair at the sides turning silver. He was married with a son and daughter, who had produced two children each, making him a proud grandfather.
“You’re probably right, Bob,” said Gardener. “After all, it is the oldest profession in the world. But I doubt very much it was the case with Nicola Stapleton. The carpets, the curtains, most of the furniture come to that, had seen better days. I wouldn’t say they were dirty, just old. The fridge in the kitchen was near empty apart from a bottle of gin and some cheese. Looked to me like she was living in abject poverty.”
“Did she meet the wrong bloke, then?” suggested Thornton. “He wants something special, a bit of bondage, maybe? She doesn’t agree, so he nails her to the floor.”
“Bit extreme. Why leave the bayonet? Surely he knows it could condemn him.”
“Maybe he’s not bothered,” said Reilly. “Anybody using a bayonet in such a manner is probably a psycho anyway.”
“Might account for the CD that was repeating itself,” added Gardener.
“What CD?” Colin Sharp asked. Detective Constable Colin Sharp was a very dedicated professional with a dark complexion, a deep resonant voice, and premature balding. He lived in Horsforth with his wife Jenny. Gardener thought Sharp was an excellent investigator, very thorough, with an unrelenting passion for digging into someone’s past. Any task he was given generally yielded excellent results.
“Something called Murder Ballads. Some of the most God-awful music I’ve ever heard. Anyone recognize it?”
“Who’s the artist?” Thornton asked.
“Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, they call themselves.”
“I recognize that name,” claimed Dave Rawson. “Aussie band. I went out with a woman once. A goth, lived near Whitby.”
“The hell were you doing seeing someone up there?” Reilly asked.
“They’re all used to him over here, he has to go further afield now.” The comment brought a few cheers and jibes.
“Fuck off,” shouted Rawson. “I’m trying to help here. Anyway, if you’ll all shut your cakeholes, she used to listen to him all the time. Want me to look into it, boss?”
“Please. Go down and the see the exhibits officer. Sign it out, copy it, and then reseal it in a different exhibit bag number. Just record what you’ve done and why. Pay particular attention to a song about a town called Millhaven. That’s the one that kept playing at the scene.”
Gardener pointed to the board and the photos again.
“I just want to say a bit more about the syringe. I’m curious about what was on the inside. It was coated in a creamy, beige-looking compound. Seemed quite thick to me. Not what I would have said was your average drug.”
“You think there’s something new on the market?” asked DC Colin Sharp.
“I hope not,” said Gardener.
“I’m surprised you managed to see that much in a syringe,” said Rawson. “Normally nothing left.”
“That’s what worries us,” said Reilly.
“I don’t think we need to concentrate too much on the contents, at least until we find out what it is. Just keep your eyes and ears open. My main concern is the victim. Who was she? Where does she come from? Who were her clients?”
“Finding her punters might be a major problem,” said Anderson.
“She must have a mobile,” offered Sharp. “Surely that would tell us something?”
“We haven’t found one yet. In fact, we found very little at her house, but I have a couple of officers going through the place, bagging everything up. Hopefully by the next incident room meeting we will be able to tell you more. What I’d like you guys to do is get back out into the field and collect and collate all the information from the Operational Support Officers. Bring it back here, load it into HOLMES, and let’s see what happens.”
Gardener let the dust settle before his next statement. Very rarely did he have a double murder in the same night to contend with. He could only ever remember it happening twice in his entire career, and both occasions were an absolute nightmare.
“Which brings me to victim number two.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Barry Morrison was a fifty-two-year-old taxi driver and part car lot owner from Birstall.” Though the team knew some of the details, Gardener relayed it again for the sake of the SPOC: when, where and how they found Morrison; and the information the butcher had provided – that Morrison rented the flat above the shop, was a model tenant and paid the rent using cash, every week without fail.
