believed there was a link between the two murders, also that this killer operated under external orders. If so, it’s organised crime in our back yard. Unfortunately, he gave no reason and some of Sinclair’s papers are missing. If we can prove Sinclair’s death was the result of defenestration, we have ourselves a case. Bob, Ali, try and find out. ”
“What if Creech blocks us?” Ali asked.
“Go behind his back, use the crime report information system at Bramshill. Get an excuse to interview the DC. We’re the Serious Organised Crime Agency, Charlie Creech is an outdated head-banger lost in a 60s TV script. OK, first case Helen Carter. You may have heard of her, TV presenter and journalist, mainly on high tech and new innovations. Again she had all the attributes of Lizzie, looks, personality, yet also a private person. She was a declared lesbian who welcomed and received full media attention because of it. Jan,” he walked over, holding out the file. “I’m not being sexist, but you’re the best informed to have insight into her mind.”
“Thanks, boss.” She raised her eyes and took the file. “Always knew dykes had a use.”
“More than that. When you prove Charlie Creech wrong, your knee in his bollocks will be twice as painful.”
“That’s bribery.” She grinned and opened the file on a picture. “Fucking hell.” She slammed the cover closed. “What bastard did that?”
“The person we search for.” Sean looked to the room. “Helen Carter was stripped, tied and whipped, repeatedly raped, then finally beheaded while kneeling on the floor of her own living room. Both ears were cut off. Her ordeal lasted three days. Chad,” he looked to the West Indian. “You work with Jan.”
“Pleasure, boss.” The velvet roll of his voice passed on an audible smile. “I just love to cuddle with Jan.”
“I have a good reason to choose you, Chad. Helen Carter was of mixed race. Her mother is from Trinidad and stayed her closest confidante. From the report, the lady doesn’t take kindly to white policeman.”
“No problem, boss. Little black ladies are my speciality.” Chad’s grin widened. “Hey, Jan. This time we smoke your fags.”
“This time you keep your hands off my butt.”
“Enough,” Sean cut in. “I’ll look into Sinclair’s daughter Lizzie myself. But for general information this is the brief. Another quiet academic girl, close to gaining her doctorate in Information Technology. Her murder took place in Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington. Again, turf belonging to Charlie Creech. For those who don’t know, Abney Park is an overgrown Victorian shambles favoured by foxes, rabbits, winos and the dead. What Lizzie was doing there, nobody knows. She lived in Hampstead. June eleventh last summer she was stripped, raped then cut up over a tombstone. The press linked it to devil worship. The investigating DI for both London murders was Victoria Lawless who, some of you may remember, was once a sergeant with SOCA”
“That prissy petal working for Charlie Creech?” Diane said. “I don’t believe it, the girl was political.”
“Going from SOCA back to the Met CID is not easy. She was looking for an opening, he was looking for someone to tread on. She ran both the Carter and Sinclair files, she believed both were murdered by the same man, but was never allowed to finish her investigations. Under media pressure, Creech dragged out a convenient scapegoat, one Edward Mears, a convicted burglar and rapist. The evidence against Mears was purely circumstantial backed by a confession under duress. In her usual, bolshie manner, sweet Victoria resigned in protest. Mears, of course, walked free, but Creech played to the press as the hard-nosed copper let down by a soft judicial system. He made it obvious the killer had been caught and set free. The tabloids loved it. Creech became a celebrity and our gods promoted him to superintendent. He’s now behind a desk but
“What if Creech blocks us?” Ali asked.
“Go behind his back, use the crime report information system at Bramshill. Get an excuse to interview the DC. We’re the Serious Organised Crime Agency, Charlie Creech is an outdated head-banger lost in a 60s TV script. OK, first case Helen Carter. You may have heard of her, TV presenter and journalist, mainly on high tech and new innovations. Again she had all the attributes of Lizzie, looks, personality, yet also a private person. She was a declared lesbian who welcomed and received full media attention because of it. Jan,” he walked over, holding out the file. “I’m not being sexist, but you’re the best informed to have insight into her mind.”
“Thanks, boss.” She raised her eyes and took the file. “Always knew dykes had a use.”
“More than that. When you prove Charlie Creech wrong, your knee in his bollocks will be twice as painful.”
“That’s bribery.” She grinned and opened the file on a picture. “Fucking hell.” She slammed the cover closed. “What bastard did that?”
“The person we search for.” Sean looked to the room. “Helen Carter was stripped, tied and whipped, repeatedly raped, then finally beheaded while kneeling on the floor of her own living room. Both ears were cut off. Her ordeal lasted three days. Chad,” he looked to the West Indian. “You work with Jan.”
“Pleasure, boss.” The velvet roll of his voice passed on an audible smile. “I just love to cuddle with Jan.”
“I have a good reason to choose you, Chad. Helen Carter was of mixed race. Her mother is from Trinidad and stayed her closest confidante. From the report, the lady doesn’t take kindly to white policeman.”
“No problem, boss. Little black ladies are my speciality.” Chad’s grin widened. “Hey, Jan. This time we smoke your fags.”
“This time you keep your hands off my butt.”
“Enough,” Sean cut in. “I’ll look into Sinclair’s daughter Lizzie myself. But for general information this is the brief. Another quiet academic girl, close to gaining her doctorate in Information Technology. Her murder took place in Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington. Again, turf belonging to Charlie Creech. For those who don’t know, Abney Park is an overgrown Victorian shambles favoured by foxes, rabbits, winos and the dead. What Lizzie was doing there, nobody knows. She lived in Hampstead. June eleventh last summer she was stripped, raped then cut up over a tombstone. The press linked it to devil worship. The investigating DI for both London murders was Victoria Lawless who, some of you may remember, was once a sergeant with SOCA”
“That prissy petal working for Charlie Creech?” Diane said. “I don’t believe it, the girl was political.”
“Going from SOCA back to the Met CID is not easy. She was looking for an opening, he was looking for someone to tread on. She ran both the Carter and Sinclair files, she believed both were murdered by the same man, but was never allowed to finish her investigations. Under media pressure, Creech dragged out a convenient scapegoat, one Edward Mears, a convicted burglar and rapist. The evidence against Mears was purely circumstantial backed by a confession under duress. In her usual, bolshie manner, sweet Victoria resigned in protest. Mears, of course, walked free, but Creech played to the press as the hard-nosed copper let down by a soft judicial system. He made it obvious the killer had been caught and set free. The tabloids loved it. Creech became a celebrity and our gods promoted him to superintendent. He’s now behind a desk but
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