Dead Gorgeous (A Mystery for D.I. Costello) (18 page)

“Yeah, but not at twenty-three, surely?”

“Depends on the circumstances, I would have thought. A lot of athletes do it, apparently. They visualize themselves making the winning run or whatever. It’s called Neurolinguistic programming.”

“Oh, I think I’ve read about that.”

“Yes, there is one question I wanted to ask and didn’t.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to know where I could get a suit like that one he had on. Patrick would look great in it.”

Gary laughed and slowed down to negotiate a roundabout.

When they got back to the incident room, tiredness was etched on the faces of all the team and Angela didn’t need any hints to realize they were all hoping to be dismissed for the weekend. She couldn’t help but sympathize as she took them all through a case conference that made sure they were up to speed on every development. “Our best bet is still this cyclist who turned up just before three o’clock,” she finished.

“What about this woman?” asked Jim. “Any joy there?”

“Not so far; I’ve interviewed Dorothea Massingham,” said Angela, “but I don’t think she’s the one we’re looking for. In any case, her connection is very tenuous.”

“Didn’t that bloke Sanders describe her suit as elegant?” said Jim.

“Yes, he used that word.” Angela made to move across the room. She hadn’t been listening closely to Jim as he spoke, but his words suddenly registered. She stopped and stood very still, as though in a trance.

“What is it?” asked Rick.

Angela blinked. “I’m not sure. What Jim said reminded me of what my stepdaughter said last night, which has made me think of something else.”

“What was that, then?” asked Jim.

“Ah, that’s a good question. When I’ve remembered
that
I’ll let you know.” Angela gave herself a slight shake and grinned round at the question on the faces of each of her team. “Sanders didn’t strike me as being a fashion-conscious person; quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Perhaps he thinks any jacket and trousers that match is elegant,” suggested Rick.

“Oh, no, I think he was a bit more aware than that,” protested Angela. “Never mind. It’s one of those niggly things which I’m sure will come back to me later. When it does, I’ll let you all know. Look, it’s late, we’re all tired. Well, I know I am. Let’s call it a day. Unless there’s some sort of a breakthrough, I’ll see you all here first thing Monday morning.”

Angela didn’t make it out to the street without interruption. The desk sergeant was in conversation with a motorcycle courier just as she was coming through the front entrance.

“D.I. Costello,” called the sergeant. “This one’s for you; could you sign for it, please?”

“What on earth’s that?” she asked, coming over and looking at the bulky envelope with her name on it in large felt-tip letters. Then she saw a sender’s label in the top-right hand corner: Leon Rushton Photography. “Oh great,” she said. “Yes, I know what these are. We’ve all knocked off for the day now, but I’ll take them home with me so I can have a look tonight.”

“What’s that?” asked Patrick, coming along the passage from their kitchen to greet her, twenty minutes later.

“It’s a set of photographs which might turn out to be evidence; one or two of them, anyway.”

“Oh, really? Where were they taken?”

“At a fashion magazine reception a little while ago. Our victim was there, and I’m hoping for a snapshot the same as, or very similar to, one that was removed from among some others in her bedroom.” She grinned at him and planted a kiss on his mouth. “I’m working on that theory, anyway. The courier arrived at the incident room just as I was leaving to come home and I couldn’t be bothered to take them back upstairs.” She took the package into the living room.

“So did she get copies of the photographs for her bedroom, then?”

“No, I don’t think so. The photographer only just about remembered her, which I don’t think would have been the case if she’d contacted him for pictures. Besides, the ones stuck round her mirror looked like nothing fancier than printouts of phone snaps. I’m hoping that among these professional shots will be some from the same sequence – so we can get a match with what’s there and identify what’s gone missing.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “You’re an intelligent woman; there must be some reason why you don’t just check her mobile for photographs.”

Angela smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, Paddywack. We haven’t found her mobile phone.”

“Ah! And how do you know a picture was removed from her bedroom?”

Angela explained about the Blu-tak in the space left by the missing photograph and Patrick listened thoughtfully.

“Ah.” Patrick looked at the ceiling and placed his index finger on his forehead. “Leaps to obvious conclusion: the murderer took it because it might lead you to him/her.”

Angela laughed. “I can see why you made it to D.I.” She handed the package to him. “Here, park these somewhere, please. I’ll go and get started on the dinner.”

“OK, may I have a look?”

“I don’t see why not. You know what the dead woman looks like.”

Patrick sat down on the edge of an easy chair, pulling the coffee table towards him, when the doorbell rang.

“I wonder who that is,” said Angela making her way to answer it. “Oh hello, Martin,” she said, as she opened the door to find their parish priest standing on the front step. Martin was beaming at her, and almost hopping from one foot to the other in overflowing excitement. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” she added. “Come in.”

“Yes, thanks, I will,” he answered, stepping into the hall. “I think I’ve found her,” he blurted out, unable to contain his news a moment longer.

“What? Found her? Oh! You mean that woman who came running into the confessional.”

“Yes. I hope so, anyway. If I’m right, she’s in a house nearly opposite Katy D, who’s on high alert, by the way, and says the police are welcome to use her front bedroom to maintain surveillance.”

“Oh, wow! You have been busy,” replied Angela. “Come in here, Martin; have a seat.”

Angela led him into the front room. Patrick looked up from
a spread of photographs. “Hi, Martin; did I hear that right? You’ve found that poor young woman?”

“I think so,” he answered. “Of course I could be wrong, but I was passing a house today –”

“Near where Katy D lives,” said Angela.

“Yes, actually we’ve got two or three parishioners along that street but the others are out at work all day.” Father Martin filled them in on his adventures of the day.

“That’s really brilliant, Martin,” said Patrick, as he continued to sort the photographs into groups. “Well done for turning detective. Let’s hope you’re right.” He looked up at him, across at Angela and back to Martin. “Of course, the police will have to approach cautiously. We’ve got an awful lot of people from Eastern Europe in England these days, and I should think a good few of them are big, chunky guys.”

“Oh, I know it’s not conclusive,” agreed Martin. “But the interesting thing is that Katy has wondered about the occupants of that house for a while.”

“Oh, really?” said Angela. “Well, that’s something to be going on with. We can certainly take a look.”

“Good,” said Martin. “Katy’s a sensible woman and not at all fanciful…” Martin drew to a halt, his eyes on Patrick, still bent on his task. He frowned as Patrick laid a photograph on the pile and then his eyes widened in excitement.

“
That’s her!
”

Patrick clicked his tongue in sorrow. “Yes, that’s Kirsty Manners, the victim. She really was a looker, wasn’t she?”

“No!” shouted Martin. “Not her; the other one.”

Patrick held up the photograph so that they could all see it. It showed Kirsty standing beside an attractive blonde woman.

“Do you mean…?” began Angela.

“Yes, exactly,” said Martin. “That’s the woman who came running into the confessional last Monday.”

A brief, stunned silence reigned in the room for a moment or two until Angela broke it. “Are you sure?”

“No doubt about it,” said Martin. “I’d recognize that face anywhere. She’s certainly good-looking enough to be a model.”

“As it happens, you don’t have to be good-looking,” said Angela, taking the photo from Patrick and scrutinizing it. “Well, not for the catwalk, anyway; that’s something I’ve learned from this investigation. Actually, you know,” she laid the photograph on her lap, “presuming they’re both standing on the same level, they look to be roughly the same height, which makes her too short for modelling.” Angela turned her gaze to Martin. “She didn’t say she’d come here to be a model, though, did she?”

“Er… Well, I assumed that was the case.” Martin screwed up his face as he thought back to the previous Monday. “Um… I jumped to that conclusion.”

Angela grinned at him. “If I remember correctly, you reported her as saying she’d come here for the fashion industry.”

“Yes, that’s it! You’re right. Modelling wasn’t actually mentioned, now I come to think of it.”

Angela turned the photograph around so Patrick and Martin both had a clear view of it. “OK, what do you see?”

“Two young women at a social event,” said Martin.

“Dressed up to the nines, full make-up, hair, the works,” added Patrick.

“Posh social event,” amended Martin.

“What else do you see?”

“Other people milling around. It’s a regular party scene,” said Martin.

“And just off to one side there’s a large board with letters ‘ista’ on it,” said Patrick. “Do we get a prize for this?”

Angela laughed. “Nope. What I’m looking at is that they’ve both got mobile phones in their hands.”

“Who doesn’t have a mobile phone in their hand these days?” asked Martin.

“Ah yes, but a mobile phone represents the freedom to communicate, independence.”

“And you haven’t found Kirsty’s,” said Patrick.

“Quite.”

“Oh,” said Martin. “And that other young woman certainly didn’t have any independence last Monday.”

“Precisely. I bet she hasn’t got access to her mobile now. What’s more, I’ve learned a little bit about this do from the photographer; Kirsty was meant to be there in a decorative role only.”

“Oh – arm candy,” said Patrick.

“Exactly how it was put to me earlier,” agreed Angela. “She caused some annoyance by going off on her own, networking and generally snooping around. It sounds like she was a bit too curious for her own good.”

“Which might be why she’s now dead,” suggested Patrick.

“Yes,” said Angela with a grim expression. “Let’s come back to these phones. I’m assuming these two women hadn’t met before, but I can’t be sure about that.”

“In any case, they struck up enough of an acquaintance to swap numbers, from the look of things,” answered Martin.

Angela was silent as she stared into the middle distance. Eventually she spoke. “I wonder if that’s all they were doing,” she said.

Later that evening, after Martin had gone back to the presbytery and they’d eaten, Patrick picked up the photograph and sat gazing at it as Angela brought their coffee into the living room. “Bit of a breakthrough, this,” he said.

“Oh yes, I’ve called the team in for tomorrow morning and started setting up surveillance procedures. It won’t be a full day, Pads. I just want to get everything in place.”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “Katy’s going to find her home life disrupted for a while. Let’s hope it doesn’t go on too long.”

“Oh, amen to that. She’s a good sort, Katy, and she has a strong sense of civic duty.”

“What did you mean earlier, when we were talking about them swapping mobile phone numbers – and you wondered if that was all they were doing?” he asked.

Angela sat down and took a sip from her cup. “We’ve already found some designs from Ian King on Kirsty’s laptop. What’s to say she didn’t also have them on her phone?”

“Showing them to the other woman?”

“Yes, something like that. I haven’t thought it through yet, but I’m getting a clearer picture of Kirsty. She liked to be on the inside of things. That’s why she poked her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“A worry for people with something to hide.”

“Yes, but I don’t think she wanted to be a threat to anyone. I think she just wanted to muscle in and be part of what went on behind the scenes. She didn’t want to simply turn up for jobs and be told ‘wear this, wear that’, ‘stand like this, stand like that’. She wanted to be somebody of more consequence than that.”

“A dangerous path to tread, though,” Patrick pointed out. “Usually, whatever wheelings and dealings are going on backstage, so to speak, are already under someone’s firm control. The territory is marked.”

“Oh yes. She was a silly woman playing with fire, and she’d already become a liability.”

“So Ian King and his partner loom large in the frame.”

“Yes, they’ve got to, haven’t they? The problem is with opportunity; they both have solid alibis.”

“How solid?”

“A round of golf for Nigel, and an afternoon session in bed with his girlfriend for Ian.”

“Ah, tricky. Who else have you?”

“Eleanor Chandler, the head stitcher, is a possibility – although she’s the alibi for Ian. Kirsty made life difficult for her because she – Eleanor – supplanted Kirsty in a relationship with Ian.”

“Not a strong motive for murder, I wouldn’t have thought.”

“No, I agree. I need to dig a bit more there. The flatmate, Sandra, had motive, means
and
opportunity – as did Tony, the bloke who runs the gym; well, I don’t know about motive for him, but he certainly had the means and opportunity. I can’t discount Darren, because you never know what unrequited love will do to someone, and he most certainly had the opportunity and the means.”

“Bit of a conundrum you’ve got there, sweetheart.”

“Yes, and I still don’t know if it all really ties up in any significant way with this woman from the confessional, apart from her being photographed at a party together with Kirsty. It could be a complete coincidence.” She sighed, suddenly feeling quite exhausted.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” said Patrick.

“What?”

Patrick leaned back and drew her into his embrace. “You’re going to enjoy your coffee, then later on we’ll have a wee dram of something and listen to some music.”

She smiled up at him. “Then what?”

“Ah, then I suggest we get an early night. We can do something to take your mind off your work problems completely.”

Angela nuzzled her forehead contentedly against his chin. “Sounds like a plan.”

The plan worked. Angela appeared in front of the rest of her team the next morning feeling completely refreshed.

She pinned up the photograph of Kirsty with the unknown blonde and looked around at her team. “Sorry to get you all in on a Saturday morning, but this new development is too important to be left until Monday.”

“Not a problem, Angie,” said Rick, speaking for them all. “Looks like a breakthrough.”

“I hope you’re right,” replied Angela. She pointed at the photograph. “This was taken at a magazine bash a while back,” she said, “giving us a concrete link between these two individuals. Kirsty Manners, here. And
this
woman came running into the parish of the Immaculate Conception asking for help, last Monday. We think that she and some other women may be held against their will, at this house.” She tapped the address, now displayed alongside, and explained the sequence of events that had brought it to prominence. “We’ve got the help of some uniformed officers, but I think we need to stay very hands-on.”

“We’ll end up spread a bit thin if we’re on watch all the time, Angie,” Rick pointed out.

“Especially if it drags on,” added Jim.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” replied Angela. “And, of course, we can’t be entirely sure this is the actual house. Father Martin didn’t get a really good look at the man in the church, so we’ve got to keep up all the other lines of investigation. Derek and Leanne, I’d like you to go and camp out. You won’t find it unpleasant; Katy makes a nice cup of tea and I’m sure you’ll find her willing to help, but take in your own food; she’s a busy lady and it’s not fair to presume on her hospitality. Jim and Rick, I want you checking in with them as much as you can. We need to know what’s going on, if anything, and we want pictures – as many as we can get.”

“All the comings and the goings,” said Jim.

“Not just that, the surveillance location is nearly opposite the house, so you might get a sight of someone inside one of the rooms. Just go for it. I want to know if a curtain so much as twitches.”

The team nodded and murmured acquiescence.