Cold Shoulder

Chapter 18

Rooney had shaved, and was wearing a clean-looking shirt and a new suit. He’d had a good lunch before he drove into the station. He knew that Janklow was being brought in by his lawyer at four thirty because his chief, who seemed to be in a growing state of panic, had called him three times.

Bean was sweating as he hit a traffic jam. Lorraine sat beside him. If she was nervous she didn’t show it but Josh grew increasingly agitated. He kept on tapping the dashboard clock, then checking his wrist-watch. It was almost four. His hair was damp at the nape of his neck and he leaned out of the window to look at the lines of traffic up ahead. He knew if she wasn’t at the station by four fifteen he’d be hauled over the carpet. He wiped his face.

Lorraine tapped his shoulder. ‘Get your light on or we’ll never make it. Shut it off before we get to the precinct.’

Subtle it wasn’t but in the end Bean switched on his siren and his blinking roof-light and began to edge his way down the centre of the road. Even less subtly, he yelled out of the window for other drivers to move over.

On arrival at the station, they were met by Rooney.

‘Is he here yet?’ she asked breathlessly.

Rooney shook his head as he and Bean hurried her along towards the viewing room. It was just an anteroom, with a table and two hard-backed chairs facing a square-curtained window that adjoined the main interview room. There were microphones at ceiling level, the controls at the side of the room. Lorraine was ushered in. She noticed that, like Bean, Rooney was sweating. She knew a lot was riding for Rooney on her identification of Janklow.

‘You just make notes and watch, look and listen. You’ll be able to hear every word they say.’

‘Come on, Bill, I know the set-up. Who’s taking the interview?’

‘Ed Bickerstaff, one of the suits. He’s the blond crew-cut guy.’

It was four twenty-five, five minutes to go. Rooney left the room. Lorraine lit up and her hands were shaking. She picked up her pen and began to doodle on the notepad, then said to Bean, ‘What if there’s something I think Janklow should be asked?’

Bean hesitated. ‘Give it to me and I’ll see if I can go into the interview room but only if it’s—’

‘Important?’ she said smiling.

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s gonna know he’s being viewed — any two-bit criminal knows by the window — so why all the secrecy?’

‘Protection.’

‘His?’

‘Yours. You’re a valuable witness, Mrs Page.’

Janklow and Kophch’s arrival in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac sent whispers through almost every department. Even though secrecy had surrounded the request to bring in Janklow, rumour spread fast; any suspect being brought in for questioning about the hammer murders would have attracted interest, but a high-society man like one of the Thorburn family...

Rooney stood in the corridor as they filed past him. He was surprised at how confident Janklow appeared, not paying anyone any attention but staring ahead, his face partly hidden by dark glasses. As they passed, Rooney sniffed. He could smell expensive cologne like delicate flowers. He noticed the way Kophch stayed close to Janklow, his steely eyes taking in everyone and everything.

Bean replaced the intercom phone and looked at Lorraine. ‘They’re coming in now.’ He drew back the curtain to expose the dark square window-pane and returned to his seat.

The microphones picked up the sounds of the room beyond. Bickerstaff was sitting to one side, hardly visible. The table was stacked with files and photographs. As the door opened, he rose to his feet. Lorraine leaned forward: she couldn’t see Janklow as the men were introduced. Kophch turned and stared at the one-way glass, aware of what it was, but said nothing and drew out a chair for Janklow.

Lorraine watched closely as Janklow sat down facing her directly, his chair positioned towards the viewing window opposite Bickerstaff. Kophch sat on his left, and clicked open his briefcase. Janklow was wearing a fawn cashmere jacket and a white shirt with a tie, but Lorraine couldn’t see his trousers. He had mouse-blond hair combed back from his face which was angular, more handsome than she had expected. His nose was thinnish, again not as she had remembered and she doubted immediately that this was the man by whom she had been attacked. She didn’t recognize him. She sat back, her heart beating rapidly. She’d been wrong. She twisted her pen. ‘Can they get him to take off his glasses?’

‘They will, just relax.’ Bean could see that she was tense: she was frowning, cocking her head first on one side then the other.

No one spoke in the adjoining room. It was eerie: the silence, the waiting.

‘Would you please remove your glasses, Mr Janklow?’ It was the quiet voice of Bickerstaff.

‘If you require my client to look at any evidence, he will need to use his glasses. They are not decorative but prescription. I’m sorry but your request is denied.’

Bickerstaff opened his file. ‘Take off your glasses, please, Mr Janklow. When it is required you may replace them.’

Janklow slowly removed them. Lorraine felt chilled for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, washed out, and he stared ahead as if straight at her. She caught her breath as he moistened his lips. His mouth had been tightly closed until this moment but when he licked round both lips his face took on a different quality, as if his lips had come to life, wide lips, wide, wet lips. She scribbled on her notepad. This was the man who had attacked her, she knew it. His lips had given him away.

‘It’s him,’ she said softly, barely audible. Bean stared at her and then back to the window as the interview began in earnest.

Bickerstaff, quiet and authoritative, first explained that he would require from Mr Janklow his whereabouts on certain dates. He was aware that some were several years ago but he should answer to the best of his knowledge. When the date of the first murder was given, Janklow frowned. ‘I have no idea,’

His lawyer jotted something in his leatherbound notebook. The second date and Janklow was unable to answer, the third and still nothing — he was even apologetic at his memory failure. Bickerstaff persisted. As the more recent dates came up, Janklow gave alibi times and places. He mentioned his brother and his mother. Both, his lawyer said, would verify his client’s whereabouts.

Bickerstaff then laid out the victims’ photographs in front of Janklow. He studied each one intently, in silence, before shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t know any of these people.’

Lorraine watched every gesture he made, his hands, long delicate fingers, and she made a note of the ring on his right-hand pinky finger. She was sure that this was the man who had attacked her, even though she didn’t recognize his voice, or remember the ring. It was his face and hands that convinced her: he was left-handed.

Bickerstaff was unhurried, taking his time over each question, each photograph. He was saving Norman Hastings and Didi — or David Burrows — until last. When he presented Janklow with the picture of Hastings, Janklow said he knew him quite well. He described how Hastings had used his garage to park his car but denied any social interaction between them. When asked if he was aware of Hastings’s transvestite tendencies he looked shocked, and when Bickerstaff asked if he knew Art Mathews he looked nonplussed. To his knowledge, he said, he had never heard the name. He was then asked if he knew Craig Lyall. This time he paused and touched his mouth, he started to shake his head and then changed his mind. ‘Craig Lyall? Er, yes, I think I’ve been to his studio. He’s a photographer. I took my mother there to be photographed, but he was not as professional as I’d hoped and the session was terminated. My mother is very particular, and this refers back to her days in the movies. She was a film star when she was in her twenties.’

Bickerstaff let him talk, quietly turning pages, before he interrupted. ‘Were you being blackmailed, Mr Janklow?’

Janklow sat back in his chair. ‘Blackmailed? Do you mean by Lyall?’

‘By anyone,’ Bickerstaff replied.

‘Absolutely not.’

He now presented Janklow with the photograph of Didi. Again, Janklow spent a considerable time looking at it, shifting his glasses on and off. ‘No, I’ve never met this woman.’

‘It’s a man.’ Bickerstaff waited. ‘She or he never made you up for a photograph?’

Lorraine saw Janklow’s mouth snap shut. Then he licked his lips again and gave a humourless laugh. ‘No, I was never made up — I presume you mean in female attire — for any photograph.’

Bickerstaff didn’t flicker but continued, head down, still nonchalant, as he asked if Janklow was homosexual.

‘No, I am not,’ Janklow snapped.

‘Are you a transvestite?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Have you ever in the past been charged with any homosexual crime?’

‘No.’

Kophch reached out and touched Janklow’s arm. He was becoming agitated and he constantly licked his lips. Lorraine chewed her pen, willing Bickerstaff to push for more, but he remained composed, even apologetic, looking at Kophch and saying that he was sorry if some of the questions were distasteful to his client but he must understand they had to be asked.

Kophch leaned towards Bickerstaff, his voice low. ‘Mr Bickerstaff, please feel free to ask my client any question — that is what we are here for, to confirm my client’s innocence — but please let me remind you, he is here of his own free will.’

‘I am aware of that, Mr Kophch. The sooner we have completed all the questions, then the sooner your presence will no longer be necessary.’

Lorraine sighed. If anything, Bickerstaff seemed to be on Janklow’s side. She had never witnessed anyone taking so long, pussy-footing around. His methodical approach was driving her crazy. She asked Bean when Bickerstaff was going to up the ante. He made no reply but stared at the glass partition.

Bickerstaff presented Holly’s picture next and Janklow denied any knowledge of her. Then Bickerstaff gave him Didi’s photograph again.

‘I have already said I do not know this person.’

Bickerstaff pushed the photograph closer. ‘This person sometimes calls herself Didi.’

‘I don’t know her — whoever it is. I don’t know them.’

‘You have also denied knowing or meeting Art Mathews.’

‘I don’t know him. You’re repeating the same questions.’

Bickerstaff was beginning to step up the pressure, just a little. ‘Now, Mr Janklow, can we return to the dates and the alibis you have given. It seems convenient that both your brother and your mother are always your only alibi. You have no other witness to—’

Janklow’s voice rose as he interrupted. ‘It happens to be the truth.’

‘Mr Bickerstaff,’ Kophch intervened, ‘it is obvious that you are beginning to repeat yourself. If you have no further questions to ask my client, then perhaps we can close this interview.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Kophch, because your client has so far been unable to present to me any alibi for a number of these cases.’

‘But they took place some years ago. If we are given time we will attempt to present you with the whereabouts of my client on those specific dates.’

Kophch stood up but was ordered by Bickerstaff to remain seated. Lorraine clasped her hands tightly together. This was more like it.

‘Mr Janklow, you’ve stated that you are not homosexual.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not a transvestite.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Is your brother?’

‘No, that’s ridiculous.’

‘And you have never at any time in the past eight years been arrested on a homosexual-related incident.’

‘No, I have not.’

‘You have stated that on the night of Norman Hastings’s death you were not in Santa Monica, you were not—’

‘I was with my mother.’

‘Is this your mother, Mr Janklow?’

Bickerstaff placed one of the photographs Lorraine had removed from the Thorburn house before him. Janklow looked at his lawyer, then looked back at the photographs. He was visibly shocked. ‘Is this your mother, Mr Janklow?’

Kophch frowned and looked at the pictures. He seemed confused as Janklow sat tight-lipped with fury.

‘Is this a photograph of your mother, Mr Janklow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.

Bickerstaff removed a picture of Mrs Thorburn and placed it on the table. ‘Do you notice any difference, Mr Janklow, between this photograph of Mrs Thorburn and the one I am now placing in front of you?’

The two photographs lay side by side, one of Mrs Thorburn, the other, everyone was certain, of Janklow himself.

He picked up the photographs and stared at them. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Would your client please answer the question?’

Janklow was becoming agitated. Lorraine stood up. Bickerstaff should go for him now. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he push Janklow now? Kophch requested a few moments alone with his client. As they were led out, Lorraine slapped the table. ‘I don’t believe this — I don’t believe it!’

The door opened; Bickerstaff walked in and asked quietly if she had anything to tell him.

‘You bet I have! It’s him and I would stand up in any court. In fact, if you want me to I’ll walk in there and confront him.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Bickerstaff said firmly, and left.

They waited over half an hour before Janklow and Kophch returned. Janklow was calm again. Kophch opened the interview this time.

‘My client and I would like to know how you came by these photographs.’

Bickerstaff kept his head down as if studying his papers. ‘I am afraid, Mr Kophch, I am unable to give that information to you. We feel we require to place your client under oath and that anything he subsequently says—’

‘If you have any charges related to my client, I want to hear them. If any relate to these murders, then we will not, at this interview, discuss or refer—’

Bickerstaff snapped, ‘You will not, Mr Kophch, tell me what I can or cannot do. I am more than aware of the law and I am now ready to charge your client with assault.’

‘What?’ Mr Kophch’s studied calm cracked. He had been unprepared for an assault charge.

Bickerstaff continued, ‘I wish formally to charge your client that he did, on the night of the seventeenth of April, assault a woman, whose identity I have every right at this stage of my inquiry not to disclose.’

‘You never at any time told me my client was suspected of an assault,’ Kophch interjected. ‘You have brought my client and myself here on false pretences.’

Bickerstaff and Kophch argued for more than ten minutes. Lorraine was becoming impressed with Bickerstaff, who had remained in control. Kophch was one of the most high-powered lawyers and knew every legal loophole but Bickerstaff was one jump ahead. He had wanted, from the outset, to force Janklow to talk on oath but without Lorraine’s verification of his identity he had not had sufficient evidence. Now he had, and at seven o’clock that evening Janklow was sworn in and read the charges of assault against him. As yet there was still not enough evidence to charge him with any of the murders. All were more than aware that when Kophch received Lorraine’s statements and was allowed access to the evidence against Janklow, they would be in trouble. But they had enough to hold him for another twenty-four hours.

At nine o’clock that evening, with only an hour’s break for a light supper, Janklow was brought back into the interview room. He and Kophch had spent the time alone in a cell.

Lorraine had sat in the incident room with Bickerstaff over sandwiches and coffee.

‘I think you should put more pressure on his homosexual activities.’

‘The blackmail’s a strong murder motive and if he and Hastings ever discussed the blackmail—’

Lorraine leaned close, excited. ‘Of course he was being blackmailed. What about all the missing jewellery belonging to Mrs Thorburn? We don’t know if it was sold with her permision but it’s a good area to get Janklow to talk about — even more so as Mrs Thorburn is his only alibi for the night I was attacked.’ Bickerstaff wiped a crumb from his lips with his paper napkin. ‘Is anyone talking to her?’ Lorraine asked.

Bickerstaff was getting irritated, but he listened — he felt obliged to. ‘Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Lorraine, I’m quite capable of interrogating a suspect.’ He finally asked her if she felt that Janklow was the killer.

‘Yes, I do,’ she stated. ‘He has the motive, heavy blackmail and possibly over a long period of time.’

‘But you don’t have any proof of that, it’s just supposition and we don’t have a motive for each of these women.’

Lorraine looked at Bickerstaff, her head on one side. ‘What about Kophch? He’s not as tough as I expected — he seems to be taking a back seat. Couple of times he could have got Janklow off the hook but he let it ride. Why?’

Bickerstaff grinned. ‘We got him. Here, read that. This retired cop has spilled the beans, and that softly spoken lawyer’s in it up to his neck.’ He pushed forward a neatly typed statement. ‘Steven Janklow had been arrested for soliciting in a red-light district. He was given a warning, but three nights later was arrested again in the same area. This time they took him down to the station to book him. His lawyer subsequently bought off the vice charges against Janklow and paid the cop to pull his arrest sheet. Kophch would be struck off if it was known that the client he bought out subsequently went on to kill eight women. But don’t let him fool you, he’s a vicious little shark. His prowess is in court — you’d be surprised what he’s like and what he can do. A lot of this is knocking him sideways — but don’t think he’s a pussy because he’s got razor-sharp claws.’

The time was up. Janklow was being led back into the interview room. The session began again. Bickerstaff repeated almost every question he had asked earlier. Janklow answered virtually word for word. He denied any knowledge of the victims and confidently repeated the same alibis. It was only when he was asked about his sexuality that he became hesitant. He was quiet, subdued, when he admitted that he was homosexual but was now celibate; he had not had a relationship with any man for ten years. He was near tears when he admitted that he did, on occasion, use women’s clothes, but only his mother’s. He had never been outside his home dressed as a woman. The photographs Lorraine had found were taken a long time ago.

‘Who took these photographs, Mr Janklow?’

Janklow became distressed. He sniffed, then took out a clean laundered handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Art Mathews, or one of his assistants.’

‘Where, Mr Janklow?’

Again he sniffed, wiping his nose. ‘Santa Monica.’

‘Are you or were you being blackmailed by Mathews, Mr Janklow?’

‘No, and I haven’t seen that wretched man since that session.’

‘Who did the hair and make-up for it?’ Bickerstaff pressed, repeating the question.

Janklow wriggled in his seat. ‘It might have been David.’

‘David?’

‘Oh, stop this! You know who I mean. That David Burrows — Didi.’

‘So was David “Didi” Burrows blackmailing you, Mr Janklow?’

‘No. Why do you keep asking me this? I’ve told you I’m not being blackmailed. Not by that Art, or Burrows or anybody. I haven’t seen them since that session years ago.’

Bickerstaff doodled with his pencil. ‘And you have not dressed as a woman for, as you said, many years?’

‘That is correct,’ he snapped loudly.

Janklow was now confronted by Rosie’s photograph. He stared at it, pursed his lips. He seemed disgusted by it. ‘That isn’t me.’

‘Please look more closely, Mr Janklow. Is that person in the photograph you?’

‘No, it is not. It’s my mother.’

‘Your mother?’

Janklow blew his nose again. His eyes watering, he wriggled and then whispered, ‘It’s me.’ He had already lied — and under oath. Bickerstaff went after him again, demanding to know just how deeply entrenched he was in the world of transvestites and transsexuals, swinging his questioning round to prostitutes — whether Janklow had ever picked up transsexual prostitutes. ‘No, I have not.’

‘You sure about that, Steven? You never picked up other men like yourself, dressed like this...’ He pushed the photo of Janklow forward again.

‘I do not pick up any of the filth from the streets.’

‘Tell me about David Burrows.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Didi. Come on, Steven, you’ve admitted he made you up, fixed your hair for the photographs and now you’re saying you didn’t know him. You’re lying.’

Janklow looked helplessly to Kophch who examined his nails, refusing to meet Janklow’s eye.

Bickerstaff leaned back. ‘Okay, Steven, you didn’t know Didi, you didn’t know Art Mathews. So tell me about the jewellery you’ve been selling off. It’s a lot of money and it belongs to your mother.’

‘You leave her out of this.’ He was back on the defensive.

‘But, Steven, if you’ve been selling it without her permission then we’ll have to discuss it with her.’

‘Leave her alone. She’s not well.’

‘I can’t do that, Steven, because she’s also your alibi for the night of the assault and the night of Norman Hastings’s murder. We’re going to have to bring her in, you must know that.’

Janklow slapped the table near to Kophch. ‘Tell them they can’t do that.’

‘They can, Steven.’

Janklow put his head in his hands. When Bickerstaff asked him again about the jewellery, he began to sob. This was not what Bickerstaff wanted: if he became too distressed, by law Kophch could take a break. Bickerstaff switched the subject away from Mrs Thorburn.

Lorraine was furious. ‘What the hell is he doing? He’s got him sobbing his heart out. Why doesn’t he push for more about the jewellery? I don’t believe it.’

Rooney walked in and saw her angry face. ‘Mrs Thorburn has just told us that she gave her son permission to sell all her jewellery and that he was, on the night he was supposed to have attacked you, with her... I got to tell Bickerstaff.’

‘Shit.’ Lorraine looked at him. ‘But somebody must have got to her — like Brad.’

‘According to the nursing staff she’s had no visitors, just one phone call. Late last night. From Kophch. But as her legal advisor he has every right to call her, and I’m telling you, she’s a tough old broad and she’s got all her marbles — told me to get the hell out.’

Bickerstaff was back on the subject of Janklow’s relationship with Norman Hastings.

‘He was a fool, a stupid idiot.’ Janklow was no longer tearful, and both Lorraine and Rooney listened intently. It was eerie watching him, his face twisted, his lips wetter and shinier. ‘Stupid, boring, fat, bloated fool.’ Kophch gave a warning touch to Janklow’s arm. ‘Get off me, don’t you touch me, you’re a useless waste of money. This is your fault, all your fault — you should never have brought me in here. I’d be better off on my own. I don’t want you here any more.’

Bickerstaff ploughed on, asking Janklow why he didn’t like Hastings, a man he had said he hardly knew. Janklow whipped round and pointed at Bickerstaff. Kophch attempted to calm him but he swiped him aside. ‘You have nothing to keep me here! You’ve been fishing around for hours and I know you have not one shred of evidence against me.’

‘What about a witness, Steven?’

‘Lies. There was never any witness.’ Janklow was pulling at his jacket and smirking now, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.

‘We have a witness, Steven, someone you attacked on the same day Norman Hastings was killed.’

Janklow laughed. ‘Oh, yes? You think I don’t know who she is? She’d never stand a chance coming up against me. She’s an ex-cop, ex-drunkard with a string of vice charges against her. She killed a kid when she was on duty. I know who you’re protecting! I know — and it’s a joke.’

Kophch was white, his face so tight with anger because his client was blowing it. He should never have admitted what he knew about Lorraine. Kophch rose to his feet. ‘I insist we take a break now.’

‘Sit down,’ Janklow leered. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy myself. This is fascinating. Go on, ask me anything you want.’

Bickerstaff said evenly, ‘Listen to me, I don’t care if we scooped a witness off the streets. All that matters to me is that she’s a witness, you tried to kill her, you used a claw hammer. You know the type because there must be a hundred of them at your garage. I am quite prepared to let you go, Mr Janklow, but I will need a blood test. You see, you made a big mistake with the assault. She attacked you as well, didn’t she? She made you bleed, didn’t she? And, Mr Janklow, we have a sample of blood taken from the vehicle, the same vehicle into which you stuffed Norman Hastings’s body. We have what I think is your blood. And now would you open your shirt.’

Janklow had become still, his face drawn, his hands clenched in front of him.

‘Open your shirt and remove your tie.’

Lorraine clutched Rooney as Janklow slowly loosened his tie, slipping it away from his neck, and undid his shirt, one button after the next. It was horribly sexual — he was flicking glances to each of the men in the room and then he pulled away his shirt, revealing his white neck.

Bickerstaff got up, hiding Janklow from Lorraine and Rooney as he peered at the man’s neck. He stepped back. ‘You’ve got a mark the right side of your neck. Where did you get it?’

Janklow shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have a German shepherd dog. He bit me a few weeks ago, maybe a couple of months. You can ask my brother, he was there, he saw it.’

Bickerstaff returned to his seat. He asked the other officer to contact Brad Thorburn. Janklow did up his shirt.

‘Did you ever use Norman Hastings’s car, Mr Janklow?’

‘Oh, I might have — yes, I did... well, not drive it. I sat in it once, and — oh, I remember it very well. I was sitting talking to Norman, and I had a dreadful nosebleed because I have a weak septum.’

‘What date would that be?’

‘I borrowed his handkerchief to stem the bloodflow. Brad saw it, because I looked dreadful, very white and shaking. So I have a witness to that as well.’

Janklow buttoned up his shirt and unbelted his trousers as he tucked in the shirt tails, giving hideous flirtatious glances round the room. ‘I did not kill anyone, I did not attack anyone, I am an innocent man, and now I would like to go home as I’m tired.’

Bickerstaff would not let up. He asked again where exactly Janklow had had the nosebleed, and on what date. Janklow yawned and said in the front seat of Hastings’s car — he’d been parking it for him in the garage.

‘What date would that have been?’

‘I have no idea, around the sixteenth, I suppose. That was why I didn’t come into work the following day, the seventeenth, because I felt poorly. I spent the day with my mother instead.’

Bickerstaff began to collect his files. ‘I think, Mr Janklow, you can leave. We will, of course, have to check all this information, make inquiries to verify your alibis, both with Mr Brad Thorburn and Mrs Thorburn. I would also like you to pass to us further details of your whereabouts on the other dates you were unable to recall where you were.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll check back in my diaries, give the relevant information to Mr Kophch and, as they say in the movies, I’ll get back to you.’

Lorraine looked at Rooney in disbelief. ‘He’s going to walk! They’re going to let him walk out of here.’

‘Looks like it,’ Rooney said bluntly.

‘But it’s obviously him! You know it, they must know it.’

‘We’re not through with him yet.’

Lorraine kicked at her chair. ‘What about me? Don’t I count? I’ve said it was him, I know it was him — he did this to me!’ She showed Rooney the scar at the back of her head and then slumped in her chair. ‘Jesus Christ, I even feel like some of the women I used to take statements from, the whores beaten within an inch of their lives. They always used to say to me, “Nothing will happen, nobody cares about us, nobody cares if they beat us to a pulp, because we don’t matter.” Are all those dead women of no consequence? Because you know, Rooney, if he walks now he’ll never be brought back in.’

As if to confirm what she was saying, the chairs were scraping back in the interview room, Kophch assisting Janklow to stand up. He was joking about his crumpled shirt.

Lorraine pushed past Rooney and made for the door. He grabbed her. ‘No, don’t do it, Lorraine, you don’t go out there.’

She wrenched her arm free. ‘He’s walking out, Bill! I swear before God I’ll make a citizen’s arrest! I’m not going to let him get away with this—’

‘He just did. Now sit down.’

When Janklow and Kophch had departed, the atmosphere in the incident room was of exhaustion and depression. Bickerstaff looked at Lorraine and lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. Lorraine’s hands were on her hips. ‘Get me a wire — get me set up. I’ll get him to incriminate himself. I swear before God I’ll bring that piece of shit in.’

Bickerstaff was worn out, but he grinned at her. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Go home and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.’

Bean drove her home and, as he had been instructed, remained with her, sleeping outside in the patrol car. Bickerstaff had taken him aside and warned him to keep her under watch day and night. Janklow knew who she was, maybe even knew her address. The following morning he was to get her some decent clothes before he brought her back into the precinct. Now she was all they had and everything depended on her. He was not to let her out of his sight for a moment.

Lorraine, accompanied by Bean and Rosie, set off early for Rodeo Drive. She chose an elegant suit, with a tight, pencil-slim skirt with a thigh-length slit, and loose jacket with a soft creamy silk blouse beneath. She chose high-heeled shoes with matching clutch bag. Conscious that she was to be wired, she also bought a fitted, slightly padded, brassière and matching panties. A suspender belt and fine pale stockings completed the outfit. She had her hair streaked, cut and blown dry, a manicure and a facial. Rosie and Bean trailed from one place to the next, sitting in the salon as she was made up by an expert. The whole process took three hours so she did not arrive at the station until after twelve.

Rooney gaped at the bill and even more when he saw her. He flushed with embarrassment. She always had been one hell of a looker, but now she was stunning. He blew it, however, when he said, intending a compliment, ‘Holy shit, they sure done a hell of a job on you.’

Rooney was not the only one taken aback by Lorraine’s appearance. Bickerstaff’s jaw dropped and the Chief, who had screamed bloody murder when he had seen the cost, also complimented her. Lorraine found it almost amusing the way they suddenly drew out chairs for her, jumped to light her cigarette. She loved the feel of the soft kid leather handbag, containing new lipstick, powder compact, silk handkerchief, calf-leather wallet, silver lighter and cigarette case.

She was to wear a small pick-up mike disguised as a decorative pin attached to a gold chain round her neck. It was in the shape of a heart and could record from a five-mile radius. She was impressed by its sophistication: she had half expected the old box in a belt strapped to her waist as she had been used to in the past. Even if she was stripped naked, Rooney said half in jest, it would be hard to find. She had flicked him a look, wondering if they were all aware she had been to bed with Brad Thorburn. It seemed likely as she was warned that the only time she would lose contact with the radio surveillance truck would be if she took a shower.

Lorraine was then closeted with Bickerstaff and his team, Rooney standing glumly to one side as they discussed her approach to Janklow. They knew he was at home and they also knew that Brad Thorburn was with him but a telephone tap had revealed that Thorburn was intending to leave for France and had been arranging his flight. Janklow had returned to the house directly after leaving the precinct but had made no phone calls. Mrs Thorburn had been interviewed again and repeated the statement she had made. Brad Thorburn had also verified everything his brother had said. Two calls had been recorded from the tap on the Thorburn home, both from Alfred Kophch, requesting that Janklow visit him in his office at his earliest convenience. Kophch had also said that on no account should Janklow make outgoing calls, but speak to him only personally at his office.

As Bickerstaff and Lorraine discussed the new developments, a report came in that Mrs Thorburn had just called Brad and asked him to visit her. She had refused to speak to Steven.

‘That’s good,’ Lorraine said. ‘The only time I saw Janklow really upset was whenever you made any reference to her and if she’s not talking to her nasty little pervert son, he might be even more on edge.’

‘You’re very confident, Lorraine. How can you be sure you’ll get into the Thorburn house?’

‘I’m sure.’

Bickerstaff was growing to like her. He patted her shoulder. ‘Well, you take care — and I mean it. Use your back-up and scream the fuckin’ place down when you feel any kind of threat.’

Bickerstaff looked up as Rooney returned, tapping his wrist-watch. It was really time for Lorraine to leave. She tried to make light of it — they were all so concerned — and asked if Andrew Fellows was still working for them. Rooney dismissed him out of hand: the last thing he had suggested was that the killer might be a woman. They had all joked that she had even been under suspicion, and Lorraine laughed out loud.

She was presented with a clean driving licence and a Mustang, also wired up to the main base, was ready in the yard. The only thing she did not have was a weapon.

Rooney walked her to the car. He opened the driving door, winking to warn her not to say anything because she was wired. Then he took his gun from his shoulder holster and stashed it in the glove compartment. ‘We’re all with you and we’ll be on hand. You know what to do?’

Lorraine nodded. They had given her the code word ‘Rosie’. If she mentioned it the back-up cops were to stand by; it meant she was heading into deeper trouble than she could handle. If ‘Rosie’ was coupled with ‘Partner’ they were to come in no matter what else she said. This was an old scam she and Lubrinski had worked, just the name of someone they could start to talk about, which would give no warning to the suspect that it was, in fact, a warning.

Lorraine shut the glove compartment. ‘Thanks, Bill.’

Rooney pulled at his nose. ‘Fuck off, and get a move on.’ He’d always said that and it touched her but she slammed the door and started the engine. She didn’t look back but headed for Beverly Glen. It would take an easy hour and a quarter. She knew Brad and Janklow were in, and that no further outgoing or incoming calls had been made. The housekeeper and gardener were there but Lorraine knew they left about four. From then on, it would just be the brothers.

Moving way behind Lorraine was a dry-cleaning truck with two overalled police officers up front. In the back were Bickerstaff, Rooney and another FBI agent. Lorraine’s car bleeped on the grid up ahead of them but they made no effort to sit on her tail. They didn’t need to — they knew where she was heading and even if they were miles back they could still monitor the car, and her personal microphone.

Lorraine parked right outside the gates, clearly visible from the house, and rang the doorbell by the intercom. The dry cleaning truck parked a good distance down the tree-lined street.

‘Who is it?’

Lorraine recognized Brad’s voice. ‘Let me come in — it’s Lorraine.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No, I got surveillance trucks and a couple of uniformed cops. What the hell do you think, Brad? Let me in.’

The gates opened and Brad came out onto the porch. He watched her as she walked up the gravel path, then frowned. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

She did a slow turn, hands out, one holding her purse. ‘I’ve spent all day at the beauty parlour. How do I look?’

‘What do you want?’ he asked abruptly.

‘To talk.’ He stared at her and she laughed. ‘What are you so suspicious of? Here, you want to check my bag?’ She tossed it to him and remained standing on the pathway.

He caught it in one hand but didn’t open it. ‘I don’t think I’ve got anything to say to you.’

She moved closer. ‘You let me in, though. How about a coffee?’

He looked back to the hallway and then down at her as she remained on the lower step. ‘I’m going away — this isn’t a good idea.’

‘Why don’t you just hear me out — hear why I’ve come? I have a reason.’

‘I gathered,’ he said, as he turned and walked into the house. She followed him, eyes flicking upwards to the bedroom above. Was he there? Was he watching her? She saw nothing; no curtain moved aside; it was very still.

In the kitchen, Brad took her things out of her bag, laid them all out.

‘Satisfied?’

He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of chilled wine, held it up and then slammed the fridge door. He poured himself a glass as she perched on a stool and began to put everything back into her purse. He switched on the coffee percolator and leaned against the sink.

‘Don’t you ever wear shoes?’ she asked, smiling.

‘What’s this, a rerun of last night?’

‘I know they took your brother in for questioning.’

‘They also released him.’

‘So I gather.’

He sipped his wine, leaning against the sink.

‘Where are you going?’

‘France.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. What do you want?’

She opened the cigarette case, held it up as if for his permission, and he fetched a cup for her coffee. She still found attractive every move he made, even just pouring coffee. He had such a great body, but his ease was what made him so sexy. When he moved close to give her the coffee he smelt of soap. ‘You just showered?’

‘Yeah, I had a game of tennis. I was going to play squash with Andrew but he refused to speak to me.’

‘Why?’

He smiled. ‘Maybe his wife has told him about her fantasy, that she and I were a hot number, but it’s all in her head.’

‘Is it made up, or did you fuck her?’

He passed her an ashtray. ‘You like to talk dirty? What does it mean to you if I screwed her or not?’

‘It was just a question. I like her... he’s okay too.’

Brad picked up his glass, tilted it towards her, and drank the contents. ‘What do you want?’

‘Money.’

He ran his glass under the sink. ‘So what’s your hourly rate, then?’

She chortled. ‘Oh, this isn’t hourly! This is going to cost you and Steven a lot, lot more.’

‘Steven?’

Lorraine blew on the hot black coffee, looking at him over the rim of the cup. ‘Let’s not waste any more time playing games. I want money, Brad. Your brother may have walked but you take a good look at me. Now put me in court in front of a jury. You think they’re gonna say, “Oh, she’s just a hooker, oh, she’s just a fucked-up piece of shit, an ex-cop who killed a kid.” You take a good look at me, Brad, because I reckon I look good. I look good enough to sway a jury, make them doubt all that shit about me, make them look at me, see the scar on the back of my head. They’ll listen real good when I say it with tears, and I can conjure up tears, Brad, I’ll have them running down my cheeks when I tell them what he did to me.’

He couldn’t deal with her at all. It was as if she’d become two, even three people. This hard, sophisticated woman was not the same woman who had wept in his arms.

He looked so confused that she felt suddenly guilty, wanting to comfort him. It was stupid. She lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out high above her head. ‘I’ll have your brother charged with assault and then they’ll think again about the murders, same blow as the one to the back of my head. He wanted to kill me — he tried to kill me — and you may say in court that he was bitten by your dog, big Mr Brad Thorburn, but wait till I tell them, weeping, holding my head in my hands, that when he struck me with the hammer I fought for my life. I bit him in the neck and I hung on until my teeth broke his skin, until he screamed like a stuck pig... It was Steven who attacked me, Brad. Why don’t we stop all the bullshit and get down to just how much you’ll pay me to keep my mouth shut?’

He looked at her with open hostility. She revolted him.

‘Okay, I’ll give you more. I had a tooth missing. They get a match on those marks on his neck, they’ll be able to verify it was my teeth — not your dog’s, but mine.’

He wouldn’t look at her.

‘You don’t like hearing me talk this way? Well, why don’t you get Steven down here? Why don’t the three of us discuss just how much it’ll take to buy me off, maybe to send me to France and forget I was ever attacked.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Sure. You wanted to know why I was here, well, now you do.’ Brad was so obviously out of his depth she felt almost sorry for him, sorry to have to be so hard, but she had no option. In some ways she wanted him to throw her out, wanted him to be straight and honest because she liked him so much.

‘How much?’ he said gruffly, not even looking at her.

She inhaled and let the smoke drift out slowly, then rested her chin on her hand. ‘A million. You can afford it. But I want it in cash, used notes.’

He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. ‘A million.’

‘And I guarantee that I’ll disappear, any charges will be dropped. Suddenly he didn’t look like your brother, suddenly I guess I was just mistaken. He’d never even have to go to court.’

‘I doubt if he will, anyway,’ Brad snapped.

‘You want a bet? Because if they don’t press charges, then I will take out a private prosecution. I’ll have every feminist group backing me up. You wouldn’t believe the stink I could create. You and your precious brother and your beloved mother would be hounded by the press. You won’t buy out of that but you can buy me out now. Go talk to Steven. Is he in?’

Brad made it to the doorway, his fists clenched. He wanted to grab her by her hair and throw her out bodily. He had never felt such loathing for another human being — let alone a woman.

‘Oh, I can see I got you real angry. Well, it’s up to you, I think I’m being fair and square. What’s a million to you, rich boy?’ He moved so fast, one moment in the doorway the next at her side. He slapped her face hard. She held her cheek. ‘That make you feel better, rich boy? It’s just gone up another ten grand. Touch me again and, so help me God, I’ll walk out of here and start screaming my fucking head off. Now go talk to your sick pervert of a brother — better still bring his ass down here. Let’s hear what he has to say.’

He walked out. She was shaking all over — he had really hurt her. She rubbed her aching jaw and checked her face in her compact mirror. Her cheek was inflamed but otherwise she looked better than she had in years. She snapped the compact shut, moved to the hall and looked up. Brad was nowhere in sight. She went into the empty drawing room.

‘He’s gone upstairs, I’m now in the drawing room.’ She said it softly, tilting her head down to the tiny gold heart.

Lorraine heard footsteps and leaned against the piano, as if she was looking over the framed photographs.

‘He’s agreed, a million, but he can’t get it for at least a couple of months.’

Lorraine propped both elbows on the piano. ‘No deal, I can’t wait that long. I want it today. Why don’t you pay me? You got the dough, haven’t you?’

‘This has nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t pay you a cent.’

‘No, but you’d stand up in court and tell a jury that your dog bit him on the neck, your mother would say on oath that her son was with her all day and all night on the night he nearly killed me. You’re sick, you know that? Well, fuck you and fuck your brother. I’m getting out of here, I can make enough selling my story to the press.’

Brad stood across the door. ‘He doesn’t have that amount of cash and nor do I. Everything’s tied up in property, trust funds. I can’t get that amount of money released in a day, it would be impossible.’

‘I don’t believe you and I wanna talk to your brother. You’re a pain in the butt. Steven!’

She heard footsteps; he was coming down the stairs.

Steven Janklow walked into view and stood in the hallway.

‘Hi, you remember me, don’t you, Steve? You said you needed to be sucked off in a public place, twenty dollars. We drove to the garage in the shopping mall. Sure you remember. Look at him, Brad, he remembers me. Maybe it’s my scar.’

Janklow’s face twisted in rage. ‘I don’t know you. Throw her out of here, Brad.’

Lorraine remained where she was. She felt safe with Brad between her and Janklow. ‘Fine, Brad, you throw me out, but first fill him in, tell him what the deal is. If you don’t have the cash, then I’ll take a couple of items belonging to your mother. Art Mathews said he was getting good prices for the stuff in Europe.’

Janklow looked as if he would attack her but Brad gripped him. ‘Just calm down, Steven. Have you ever seen her before?’

They moved out of sight further into the hall. Lorraine had to hold on to the piano top, her legs were shaking so much. She could hear Janklow insisting that he did not know her, that she was lying. She hurtled out and confronted both men. ‘I’m lying, am I? Right, you’ll see, and I’ll see you in court.’

She strode into the kitchen and picked up her bag. She was about to walk past them to the front door, when she heard Brad’s low voice, ‘Give that to me! Give it.’

She turned round just in time to see Janklow with the gun but he hadn’t even got it to waist level before Brad had taken it from him. Then he sank onto the bottom stair. Brad slipped the weapon into his pocket. He spoke to Lorraine.

‘You’ll get your money as soon as I can arrange it.’

‘Well, what about the jewellery? Don’t you have any left? Art seemed to think you had more’n the Queen of England.’

Janklow’s head was in his hands, but he said, ‘He was a thieving piece of shit.’

Lorraine sniggered. ‘Yeah, he was that all right but you got no worries about him talking.’ She was on firmer ground, testing how much she could say. ‘They had him arrested for the murders, didn’t you know? Apparently he even admitted to a couple, then he got scared and killed himself — cut his wrists on his glasses.’

Janklow looked at her with his pale, expressionless eyes. Lorraine held his gaze. ‘You shouldn’t have hurt Didi, though. She was a friend of mine. I know she was into the blackmail with Art, but he forced her to do it.’

Janklow looked up at his brother. ‘There’s nothing left, Brad. I’ve got no money — I can’t pay her.’

‘What about your mother? She’s sitting on a load, isn’t she? How would you think she’d feel if I paid her a visit? It’s all the same to me. Look, I don’t want to walk away empty-handed. If Art and Didi cleaned you out, then why not—’

‘You don’t go anywhere near my mother.’ Janklow’s temper surfaced.

‘Then I’ll just walk out of here. But I warned your brother — you ask him — I’m not gonna let you off. I’ll sell my story to the papers and then she’ll wish she could get up and run because they won’t leave her alone. They’ll dig up every inch of dirt on her, on this family—’

Janklow shoved Brad away and dived at Lorraine, but again Brad caught him before he laid a finger on her. He pushed him up against the wall. ‘Tell me the truth, Steven. Was it you who attacked her?’

He screamed and tried to wriggle out of Brad’s grasp, but Brad thumped him in the stomach so hard he buckled over. Then he yanked his brother up against the wall by his hair. ‘You’d better tell me, Steven, because if what she says is true, then we’ve got to pay her off.’

She pressed her back against the wall. ‘He attacked me and he murdered the others. He did it, Brad! Ask him. Go on, ask him!’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ screamed Janklow.

Brad released his hold but was still too close for his brother, who was gasping for breath, to try anything on her. Brad looked at Lorraine, then at Janklow. ‘Okay, we’ll pay. I’ll pay you whatever you want.’

Janklow pulled at Brad’s arm. ‘You fool, you pay her and she’ll be back like that other bitch. They’ll never leave you alone. You let her walk out of here and she’ll be on your back like a leech. She’s a leech, a blood-sucker.’

‘What you gonna do, Steven? Kill me like the others?’

Lorraine spat it out and Janklow tried again to reach her. Again Brad dragged him back, shoving him against the wall. He was frothing at the mouth with impotent fury, but Brad was too strong for him to escape. ‘They deserved it! And even if he’s stupid enough to pay you off, I’ll find you, wherever you are, no matter how long it takes.’

She pointed at Janklow and then back at Brad. ‘You did hear that, didn’t you? You’re gettin’ off real light. He’s killed eight women and all I’m doing is asking for a million dollars. I could push for a lot more.’

Brad looked first at her then Janklow as the implication sank in. His face was drained. He hauled his brother slowly to his feet, and stared into his twisted face. Janklow was near to weeping. ‘Is this true, Steven?’ Brad shook him so hard his head cracked against the wall. ‘Is it true?’ He gripped his brother’s face in his hands. ‘Is it true?’

Deflated, Janklow lifted his hands up like a child to his mother. He was half pleading with Brad to hold him. He started crying, his wet lips hung open as he blubbered and began slowly to slide down the wall. ‘I’m taking him upstairs to his room. You stay down here.’

Lorraine watched as Brad half carried his brother upstairs. There was no fight or anger left in him: he was crying more loudly — she could hear him — he sounded like a little boy. ‘Brad,’ she said flatly. Half-way up the stairs, he stopped. ‘You’d better stay with him. Will you put the gun down that you took from him?’

They both looked towards her, as different as Dilly Fellows had said, like chalk and cheese. Brad took the gun out of his pocket and for a split second she thought he was going to fire it straight into her head, but she said calmly, matter-of-fact, ‘I’m wired up, Brad. Every word we’ve said has been recorded. Just put down the gun.’

He let it drop and half carried, half lifted Janklow into his room. As the door closed she went to the intercom in the hallway and said they should come in and that he was in the top right-hand front bedroom. She pressed open the gates and went to wait on the porch. The truck was now pulling up outside. Rooney was first out and gave her the thumbs-up. Next out was Bickerstaff. Lorraine had turned away to look over the beautiful gardens, the flowers, the swimming pool, the tennis courts. It was so perfect, so incongruously peaceful. The sound of squad cars arriving cut through the silence. Lorraine joined Rooney. She removed the wire from her neck and asked if she could go home. She was told by Bickerstaff that she must return to the station.

Brad Thorburn was led out between two uniformed police officers followed by Steven Janklow handcuffed between another two. Janklow began to sob out a wretched, sickening confession inside the vehicle, and two hours after he was arrested, admitted to six murders, but seemed vague about Holly and Didi, and one of the as yet unidentified victims. The other two remained unidentified because Janklow didn’t know their names but agreed when shown the photographs that he had killed them. He said one was called Ellen and the other something like Susanna but he hadn’t known their surnames.

Lorraine did not get home until late that night. Rosie was waiting expectantly to hear all that had happened. She gave her friend a bear hug and was disappointed when Lorraine didn’t want to go out for a celebration dinner.

‘But it’s all over, isn’t it?’

Lorraine sighed, exhausted. ‘Yes, I guess it is, but I don’t feel like celebrating.’

The next few days were long and drawn out. She was asked to be on call should they require her at the station. Something nagged at her but she couldn’t pin it down. In the end she put it down to the possibility that she still might be used as a prosecution witness.

The good news came at the beginning of the following week. Janklow would plead guilty — which meant Lorraine would not have to take the stand — to five counts of murder.

A month after his brother’s arrest, Brad Thorburn left Los Angeles to escape media attention, but remained in touch with his brother via their lawyer. Lorraine followed the progress of the case through Rooney, or by dropping into the station. Money was tight, and Rosie kept up her daily check of want ads, but their financial situation put paid to the prospect of starting up their own agency.

Rooney was the one to tell Lorraine that her theory had been wrong although so had everyone else’s. Further interviews with Steven Janklow elicited that he had been blackmailed by Art Mathews for much longer than they had thought — almost nine years — but he had only met Art once. Didi had made the calls and collected the money and the jewellery. Janklow had always liked Didi, he said, because she fixed his wigs and make-up. The other women had been murdered because they were like his father’s whores, dirty hookers he had brought home to flaunt in front of Janklow’s beloved mother. There was no blackmail link to the dead women, only Didi. Norman Hastings had been killed because, as he was being blackmailed himself, he felt that he and Janklow could help each other out — even go to the police to press charges. Janklow had not wanted anyone to know about his private life; he was disgusted that a fat middle-aged man like Norman Hastings could ever think that they were alike, so he killed him. When pressed for further details on the murder of Angela ‘Holly’ Hollow and David ‘Didi’ Burrows he said that he couldn’t remember and he supposed he must have killed them.

Janklow also admitted attacking Lorraine, again saying that she was just like his father’s whores and he had been right to attack her as she was now his brother’s whore. His obsessive love for his mother had so twisted him that half the time he believed that he was her, and when he eventually admitted everything he had done, did not hold it against her that she had not come to see him.

To his surprise Rooney was called in to see his chief and given a big bonus; a whip-round from all the officers had paid for a gold travel clock and leather case. He hated the thought of retirement but his part in tracking down Janklow had made good press coverage, and he grudgingly thanked Lorraine but then said that if the truth be known she should thank him.

Lorraine’s part in Janklow’s arrest was not leaked to the press. The only thing she got out of it was the few bucks from Rooney, the clean driving licence and the new clothes. She had to hand back Rooney’s gun because he had to return it with his badge. She and Rosie were flat broke.

‘The bastards! Don’t you get a reward?’

Lorraine laughed. ‘No! But I got my self respect, Rosie.’

‘Well, it ain’t gonna pay the rent, sweet face, so now what do you do?’

She was looking good, she knew it; she’d been back on form and she knew that too. Working again had filled in her days, her nights, and yet somehow she wanted or expected more. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror: so much for respect. If they really thought she was something, how come they didn’t offer her a job? How come, at the end, she was still broke, and worse, back to square one? She gripped the washbasin and bowed her head.

‘Tea’s ready,’ Rosie yelled out.

Lorraine looked up at herself; it wasn’t over, she hadn’ beaten it. ‘Jesus Christ, I want a drink.’

Rosie cut a thick slice of banana bread and poured tea for each of them. ‘Home-made that — got it at the deli near the corner.’ Lorraine choked suddenly. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’

Rosie watched as she grabbed the file from the Janklow case and began to thumb through it. Half an hour later she looked up. ‘I got to go out. If you want something to do can you find out who we contact to rent that place Art Mathews had as a gallery, and how much? I’m gonna see if I can raise some dough, then we’ll open up Page Investigation Services. I’ll be back or I’ll call in, okay?’

Rosie followed her onto the steps outside the apartment. ‘Where are you going?’

Lorraine ran down the stairs, turning at the bottom. She waved and called back something about the banana bread, then she formed her right hand into the shape of a gun, and pretended to fire it. Rosie went back inside and glanced at the papers wondering what Lorraine had been so excited about. The file was open at Didi’s autopsy report. Rosie grimaced in distaste and went back to her bread. It didn’t taste so good. The pathologist’s findings stated that David Burrows’s last meal had been banana bread.