Cold Shoulder

Chapter 6

Rosie woke up with a start, and then flopped back. Lorraine was in the shower. She squinted at the alarm clock: half past eight. She couldn’t go back to sleep, so she got up and went into the freshly painted main room. Lorraine’s bedding was neatly folded, and a pot of coffee was on the stove. Rosie toasted some muffins, then went out to see if the Sunday papers had arrived.

Lorraine emerged, made up and in her new blouse and the safari suit. She also wore the high-heeled slingbacks and skin-tone tights. She no longer needed to raid Rosie’s make-up or jewellery box, as she had bought her own cosmetics and a pair of fake pearl earrings.

Rosie gaped, and then sniffed. ‘My God, you look good and you smell terrific. Are you working today?’

‘Yeah, there’s a big art dealer coming so I’ve got to open the gallery early. I’m sorry if I woke you.’

‘No problem. You want a muffin... coffee?’

‘No thanks, I’ve had breakfast. I’m off now.’

Jake arrived about an hour later. Rosie was still reading the papers. ‘Morning. It’s baking out already. Where’s Lorraine?’

‘Gone to the gallery. You want some coffee and muffins?’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’

Rosie bustled around getting him a cup and plate, then sat and ate another muffin, washing it down with more coffee. She divided up the paper and they sat opposite each other, reading.

‘They found another body,’ said Jake. ‘Prostitute. Reckon she was killed the same way couple months back, this time in Santa Monica.’

Rosie slapped down the paper. She looked at Jake. ‘She’s lied. She’s not gone to that gallery, she’s gone to see her kids in Santa Monica. She’s so secretive... but I know she’s traced them ’cos I saw the address on a note by the telephone and I know she’s gone because she’s taken the dolls she bought. Now why does she lie?’

‘That’s maybe just the way she is,’ said Jake, folding his paper. ‘Why don’t we surprise her? Let’s get the kitchen started.’

Rosie pulled a face. ‘I was hopin’ you’d forget all about it, I hate painting, it gives me a backache, and then my arms ache from the brushes. Even Walter’s done a bunk — paint gets to cats, you know.’ She glared at the bedroom door. ‘This is bloody Sunday morning, for chrissakes, a day of rest!’

Jake began to clear the kitchen. It was so small it wouldn’t take long, and then maybe they could do the bedroom, really surprise Lorraine.

Rooney was sweating. Ten o’clock and it was way up in the seventies. He hated losing his Sunday: there was nothing he liked better than sitting in the yard with the papers. He had them all stuffed under his arm as he plodded along the corridors towards his office. He saw Bean up ahead with a balding man.

‘Morning, Captain.’

Rooney glowered, and waited for Bean to join him. ‘That’s not him, is it?’

‘Yep, he’s been working from home, seems a nice guy, real low key.’

Rooney snorted, and together they went into his office. Andrew Fellows was younger than Rooney had first thought. Prematurely bald, his rather handsome face was marred by a pair of enormous ears that constantly caught the attention — they moved up and down when he talked. The more animated he became, as Rooney was to discover, the more the ears worked overtime — and Professor Fellows was an animated man. He used his hands like a conductor, and his trim body in its pristine white T-shirt and tight jeans seemed incapable of staying still for a second. Rooney took him into the ‘Hammer Killings’ incident room. Photographs of all the victims had been posted up on the walls and rows of computers installed. He looked up expectantly at Fellows. ‘So, you come up with anything for us?’

Fellows nodded, his ears waved, and he opened a worn leather briefcase. ‘I’ve spent three days studying all the evidence to date, and I’ve tried to assimilate the most important aspects so we can cut through the dross. Much of the evidence you gave me was of no use, so I concentrated on this detailed description apparently given by an anonymous caller...’

He began to pace up and down. “The caller gave a concise and exceptionally clear picture of the assailant — apart from his actual size...’ Rooney sighed, looked at Bean and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Fellows flapped his hands. ‘... leading me to believe she had not met the man before. He was in the car when he picked her up, so she may have been a stranger to him. Let’s give him a name rather than have to keep calling him the assailant or killer. Why not — for want of better — “the Teacher”...’ Fellows laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s just that the description fits an old college professor I had.’ Rooney gave a faint grimace that was supposed to be a smile.

Fellows moved to the row of victims’ faces. ‘Now, we’re led to believe that all these women and Norman Hastings were killed by the Teacher — and this woman, Helen Murphy—’ Fellows pointed to the wrong picture, and Bean corrected him. ‘Ah, sorry, the body of Helen Murphy was found in the trunk of a car, so we are to presume the Teacher first attempted to kill her, failed, then traced her once more, or knew where she lived or the area she worked, whatever, and killed her, using the same method, claw hammer blows. Am I right so far?’

Rooney sighed. ‘Yes, but, frankly, you’re wasting time. What we need to know — what I need to know — is what sort of man is this bastard?’

‘That’s obvious. You’ve been given a remarkably clear description, but don’t get me off track. Something’s wrong, you see. When I went over the information regarding Helen Murphy, I was confused.’

Rooney coughed. ‘What we got from that description, Professor, was that he’s probably got a good income, a good job and—’

‘Yes, yes, but let me get round to that. What’s bothering me, as it doesn’t make any logical sense, is, if a woman is badly beaten — as witnessed by, er, that couple, Mr and Mrs Summers — and, assuming that it was the same woman who subsequently gave you the killer’s description — going so far as to report the incident to the police, describing the hammer — would she go with him again? He had to pick her up again, correct? Now, she was found in a car that had been left unattended, a wrecked vehicle, abandoned for possibly two or three months. Not like any of the other vehicles used. All of those were reported stolen shortly before the crime was committed. So that means our Teacher had to pick her up in another vehicle, kill her, and then dump the body. So Helen Murphy’s murder does not follow the same pattern as the others.’

Rooney frowned. He’d given this a lot of thought himself and was about to say as much when Fellows continued, pointing at Bean. ‘Whoever took the call said the woman was precise, articulate, and spoke fast in an almost clipped tone. She refused to give any details about herself, and they were unable even to ask her name because she continued to talk so quickly, but they jotted down almost the entire conversation, and then she hung up. Yes?’

Bean nodded. He felt almost guilty, as if he’d done something wrong, because Fellows was glaring at him.

‘You took statements regarding the victim Helen Murphy, correct?’

‘Yes,’ Bean said, ‘but I didn’t do them all, a few of the statements were taken by—’

Fellows interrupted, his arms swinging like windmill sails, ‘Who was Helen Murphy? Previously Helena, Helena Dubjeck, an alcoholic, drug abuser, persistent brawler, and... I can’t recall all her previous charges. And she had false teeth. Also, according to the pathologist, a possible malformation of her upper lip, which you can even see on her photograph...’ He paused. Rooney was rising slowly to his feet, when the windmill arms waved again. ‘One moment. Didn’t your anonymous caller say that the assailant, our Mr Teacher, was possibly around one hundred and eighty pounds? Odd, don’t you think? Not “fat” or “thin, skinny, well-built” — but she gave you his possible weight? Doesn’t that strike you as an odd thing for this kind of woman, Helen Murphy, to say? And you make no allowance for the fact that she might have had a speech defect, might even have had — and you must ask those who knew her — the trace of a foreign accent. She was not born in America, was she?’

Fellows ran his hand over his bald head then pulled at one of his ears. ‘Do you see what I’m getting at? I would say that whoever made that call describing her attacker was someone familiar with police procedure, familiar with short-cutting a description. Am I right? It was not made by Helen Murphy.’

Rooney sat back, transfixed by the information that Fellows spouted out like bullets.

Fellows faced the wall lined with photos. ‘These women were all prostitutes, but none of them had been penetrated at the time of death. No sexual intercourse took place. So why did he pick them up? What was he wanting them to do? I doubt he wanted intercourse — perhaps he wanted simulated sex, or to be jerked off. Or I would say he has a sexual problem, probably impotence. They get into his car or stolen vehicle, he drives them to some location. If they are bending over his groin, then it’s simple for him to strike the back of the head. Again, go back to Mr and Mrs Summers. The woman they saw was bleeding badly, but also bleeding from her mouth. Correct?’

Rooney nodded. ‘She also said she’d bitten the man in the neck.’

‘But she also said she’d broken the skin, his skin, I presume, so the blood on her mouth could easily have been his blood, not her own. She was facing the Summerses who saw no wounds to her face apart from the bloody mouth — but the back of her head was bleeding. Nevertheless she was quite capable of flagging down a cab, giving an address. Now, would that woman, just a few days later, go with the same man again? And be caught the same way, yet again, with a hammer blow to the back of her head? Unless she knew him or was an accomplice to the other killings I doubt it. If she was an accomplice and made that call, then she could or would be arrested.’

Rooney felt inadequate. This big-eared windmill of a man, after just a few days’ thumbing through their files, was throwing out mind-blowing stuff. He half expected Fellows to have another pull at his ears and then name the killer. But Fellows had become silent, and was sitting staring down at his sneakers.

‘He is a sick man, a tormented man, deeply disturbed, and I think he has killed regularly. I don’t think he’s been put away or locked up. On the contrary, he’s walking around confident, very confident, because he’s gotten away with it for years. Now, with this press coverage, will it make him stop killing? Possibly. I hope so. But it may make him irrational. You see, he’ll want to prove, even more, just how clever he is. You won’t catch him unless he makes mistakes. On the other hand, the press coverage could also make him stop, for a while anyhow. But he won’t be able to stop completely, because, I would say, these murders are the only way he’s able to get sexual gratification.’

Fellows got up again and marched up and down the wall of victims, peering at the faces, turning to retrace his footsteps. ‘He must be in full employment, possibly some kind of travelling sales executive. He’s moving around a lot of areas. He could even be a car salesman — he certainly knows about cars and how to steal them. I would say he might have a garage, or a storage place where these cars can be hidden. I doubt if he has a family — no wife or children. This man has a hatred of older women, a terrible hatred—’

Rooney interjected to ask about Angela Hollow. Fellows took a deep breath. ‘Yes. She was young — and the most recent victim? Prostitute, working the streets the night she was killed?’ He looked at the picture of Holly. ‘Find out if, on the night she was killed, any other girl or woman was next to her. Maybe Holly crossed to him when he was really after another girl close by, it’s possible. Because I have to admit she makes my theory wobble, as she’s not in the same category as the others. This worries me...’

He tapped the picture of Norman Hastings. ‘There’s something odd about him, too, if we talk it through. He leaves his car, I can’t recall the exact location, our Teacher steals it, or is even in the process of stealing it, and is caught red-handed. Hastings calls out, may even try and stop Teacher so, in that case, why the wound to the back of his head like the women? Unless Hastings was actually opening his car, Teacher, ready for the kill, simply walks up and strikes him?’

Rooney hitched up his pants. ‘He went to the bank and—’

Fellows wafted his hand. ‘That’s immaterial — Teacher’s not after money, he even left the victims’ jewellery on their bodies. No, he’s not after something as mundane as that, he’s not a robber. He’s a sex killer, he wants sexual gratification, nothing more.’

Rooney waited, almost afraid to interrupt. Fellows sighed, and sat down, looking at the picture of Hastings. ‘It’s possible they knew each other. I could be wrong, and nothing in all the reports gives any indication, other than that Hastings was an unfortunate man who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. What is not clear is what was that place? Outside his bank? In a car park? No one has come forward to say they saw Norman Hastings on the day of his death, so where did it happen? We don’t know.’

Fellows went silent, chewing at his lower lip before he returned to the photo wall, to the graphs and memos. He stared at the photographs of the vehicles in which the dead women had been found. A Lincoln Continental, a Chrysler Le Baron, a Saab, a Mercedes, an Eldorado Cadillac — the latter the burned-out wreck where Helen Murphy had been found. Then he looked over the charts of the locations. Beverly Center on Melrose, Shopping Mall Van Nuys, West Hollywood, Santa Monica Boulevard, Century City and lastly the Santa Monica shopping centre. He stood for at least three minutes, his eyes roaming the photographs, the locations. There had to be a link between them, a pattern beyond the method of the murder itself. He needed to know as near as possible the times of, one, when Helen Murphy was killed, two, when the attack on the woman in the Van Nuys shopping mall occurred — the one they had wrongly presumed was Helen Murphy — and, three, Holly’s murder. The three were of interest because Holly’s was the last, the failed murder attempt would have been between the last two.

‘How close are these, time wise?’ Fellows flicked his hand to Helen Murphy and Holly.

Bean crossed to the information section and looked up. ‘The reported attack on the woman in the Van Nuys shopping mall was on the same day Hastings was killed. This woman, Helen Murphy, was, as close as we can get from the labs, murdered about three days before we found her.’

Fellows nodded. ‘But they can’t be exactly sure, can they? I mean, it could be a day either side. Her body was pretty high, wasn’t it? Already decomposing?’

Bean nodded and then checked the information on Holly. Fellows had taken a small black leather diary from his pocket and was flipping through it, licking his fingers as he pushed the small pages over. ‘And, Lieutenant, Holly was killed on what date?’

Bean looked at Rooney. ‘Fifteenth of this month.’

Fellows pursed his lips. ‘You got dates for all the others? See if it’s always around the same time. I know some of them are four to six years old, but I’d like to get a calendar made up. Would you do that for me?’

Bean nodded. Fellows turned to Rooney and gave a glum smile. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s about it for today. It’s not much because I need more time, and I’ll hopefully come up with something else. I expect you’ve already come to the same conclusions yourselves. Basically, a lot of what I do in the end is simply common sense.’

He picked up his briefcase. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ Rooney asked anxiously. ‘I mean, all the team is coming in today to talk this over—’

Fellows snapped his case shut. ‘I’m sure you can repeat everything, and I have a game of golf waiting. If you just keep me informed of any new developments, I’ll get back to you.’

‘What did you think of him?’ asked Bean when Fellows had gone.

‘I take back everything I said. How’s that for starters?’

Bean grinned. ‘Odd character, wasn’t he?’

‘Big ears.’ Rooney sighed. ‘We’re almost back at the starting gate, aren’t we? From what he’s said, we’re off by a long way with Murphy’s husband. Nobody’s found the fucker anyway.’

He flicked at the blind on his office window. ‘You know, way back I was on a case, a missing kid — long time ago — but we’d all given up, we just had nothing. You remember that woman I saw that night when we went to the Indian?’

Bean raised an eyebrow.

‘Well, she was on the same case, a little girl missing. She found her body at the school. She was such a cute little kid, and...’ Rooney sighed, seeing the little girl’s face again. ‘Anyway, Lorraine — that was her name, didn’t I tell you about her?’

‘Drunk on duty, right?’

‘This was before she became a lush, years before, and she was a good cop, dedicated — well, as much as a woman can be. Anyway, she wouldn’t let go, she was so sure it was this janitor, but we had nothing on him. He even had a strong alibi for the afternoon the girl went missing. We’d all scrapped him as a suspect — she was even warned off from visiting the school and his place. Did it in her own time. She just wouldn’t back off him. And we had not one shred of evidence, it was just her intuition...’

Bean yawned and looked at his watch, he could hear all the men starting to arrive outside, and he wondered where the story was leading. Rooney too seemed uncertain, still flicking at the blind with his fat stubby finger. ‘She broke him down, I don’t know how, none of us did. She brought him back into the station for maybe the tenth time, questioned him over and over, and meanwhile there was the Captain going ape-shit, saying we’d be accused of harassment. Then she walked out, and she had this look on her face like some prize fighter. She lifted up her fist, said he’d admitted it, that he’d just broken down and admitted killing the little girl...’

Bean wasn’t listening, his attention on the doorway as he looked at the men that passed. ‘Everyone’s gathered. You want to go in?’

Rooney hitched up his pants. ‘Maybe we try again with Hastings’s wife, maybe we’ve been going too softly-softly, maybe he wasn’t such a good, upright, honest citizen. And we start trying to trace that missing witness again. We don’t back off, but keep on going — okay?’

Bean sighed. ‘You know, even if we do find her maybe all she knows is what she told us and that won’t help.’

Rooney jabbed at him with his finger. ‘Wrong. She never said where he picked her up from. She probably knows a hell of a lot more than she let on. Now, let’s get fucking cracking before the entire Sunday’s up the spout. We got to trace that bitch and all leave is cancelled as from now...’

The cab drew up outside a narrow, three-storey house facing the ocean that didn’t look much but, Lorraine knew, would have to be worth outside three million dollars. Mike Page was certainly doing a lot better for himself nowadays. The cab driver, who had been watching the clock, now turned to face Lorraine. ‘You want to drive around some more or are you getting out?’

‘Drive around a while longer.’

He sighed. ‘Okay. Anything you want, lady, this is your ride.’

They did another tour of Santa Monica, then returned and parked in exactly the same place as before.

‘This is it, lady. I got an account customer I need to pick up, so, if you don’t mind...’

He was lying, she knew, he just wanted her out of his cab, probably because it was Sunday and he wanted to get home. She paid the fare, and stepped out. Hardly had the cab door shut behind her before he drove off. She felt marooned, afraid to walk the few yards to Mike’s front door, yet unable to turn and walk away. She stood there, frozen.

‘Lorraine?’ The voice was unmistakable. It was Mike. She turned and shaded her eyes. He was wearing an open neck shirt, white slacks and flip-flops. A big dog with long scruffy hair padded beside him. Her heart was thudding and she knew she must be flushed a bright red and her whole body broke out in a sweat. Mike had a deep sun-tan and his teeth gleamed; his dark brown eyes had lines at the side, crow’s feet, but apart from that he didn’t seem much older than when she had last seen him.

‘Hi!’ He stood about a foot away from her. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until later.’

‘I got a taxi.’

He smiled, reached for her bag and she let him take it.

‘I got something for the girls, I don’t want you to think I’m staying over...’

He took her elbow, about to draw her towards the house, then he stopped. ‘They’re out swimming but they won’t be long, so we can have a chat, catch up.’

She followed him towards the front door, but he went down some steps to enter the house through large french windows which opened onto a verandah.

This is nice,’ she said lamely.

‘Yep — and it’s breaking me financially, but the kids love it,’ He paused. ‘Oh, maybe you don’t know. I’ve got two sons — they’re with the girls and Kathy.’

Lorraine nodded, presuming Kathy to be their stepmother. She stepped into the big open room, where toys and newspapers, even breakfast dishes, had been left on a huge round table facing the ocean window.

‘Sorry about the mess but Sundays we just let everything hang out. Now sit down and I’ll get some coffee going.’

Lorraine sat on the wide sofa. She looked slowly around the room, at the paintings, the throw rugs, the grains of sand that sparkled on the floor. ‘Can I smoke?’

Mike cleared the table, and looked up. ‘Sure, I’ll find you an ashtray.’

She lit up, her hand shaking so much that she glanced over to see if he’d noticed, but he was carrying a stack of dishes into the kitchen. The door closed and she inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She got up and stood by the open window, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

Mike held onto the edge of the sink, shaken. Nothing had prepared him for the way she looked. She had aged so much — she was skin and bone, her face scarred so badly she seemed to squint. He shook his head, wishing he had more time to prepare the girls. Then he heard Sissy calling, and before he had time to warn her not to come down, she was in the drawing room. He listened at the door.

Sissy was wrapped in a cotton kimono. She was deeply tanned and had waist-length, ash-blonde hair. She was as tall as Lorraine, but full-breasted, her legs muscular and taut. Her long arms and perfect hands immediately pulled the kimono closer as she had no belt and was naked beneath it. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.’

Lorraine bowed her head. ‘I’m, er... well, I guess you knew I was coming. I’m Lorraine.’

‘Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. Where’s Mike?’

Lorraine swallowed. ‘He’s making me some coffee.’

She wondered who the beauty was, but Sissy seemed totally at ease, striding to the kitchen. ‘Darling, you should have said, or yelled up that Lorraine was here. I’ll go back up and shower, leave you two to have a chat... Mike?’

He walked out of the kitchen and slipped his arm around Sissy. ‘Well, you’ve met. This is my wife, Sissy.’

Lorraine forced a smile as Sissy walked out and up the stairs. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said quietly.

Mike nodded. ‘The girls adore her, and — well, lemme get the coffee.’

Lorraine looked out onto the verandah and lit another cigarette from the stub. Then she started to cough, one of her awful, chesty, phlegmy coughs that made her feel weak and her eyes run. She gasped, tried to control it and Mike appeared with a glass of water.

‘You should give that up!’

She shrugged, still coughing, and took the glass. Mike returned to the kitchen, and Lorraine remained outside on the verandah, sitting on one of the wooden bench seats. She drained the glass and set it carefully on the table. At least her hands were no longer shaking.

Mike carried out the tray of coffee and set it down. He poured a cup, and she smiled. It was the first time she even faintly resembled her old self: Mike noticed that she still had the palest of blue eyes.

‘So. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve often wondered how you were, hoped you’d get in touch.’

He waited for her to reply but she stared ahead. He could see the deep scar down her cheek, and her body shaking slightly. He’d sometimes wondered how he would react to seeing her again. He’d expected to feel anger, or perhaps attraction, rather than this deep sadness. He had worried that she might have some custody query, or have become financially secure enough to want the girls to live with her. But the worn, old-fashioned safari suit, the cheap shoes, everything about her looked seedy and worn. Worse still was Lorraine herself. She had always been so positive, arrogant even, now all he could see was a pitiful shell of what she had once been. That was what he felt more than anything: pity, and an overwhelming relief she was no longer part of his life.

‘I don’t drink any more, Mike.’ Her voice was smoky from too many cigarettes, deeper than he remembered.

‘Good, that’s good...’ he said, hesitantly.

‘But I sure as hell could do with one now!’