Slade and Whitley arrived at the production base by four the next afternoon, ready for the night shoot. The Bentley roared up the bumpy access track and lurched to a halt on the grass car park in front of the unit trailers. Slade switched off the engine, killing the loud music (Whips and Furs, the Vibrators)much to Whitley’s relief. And DC Nandu’s too, who also occupied the car.
Slade scowled at them. “Whassup? We can sit right here and listen to a few more tracks if you like?”
Whitley and Nandu proved how much they liked that idea by the speed with which they jumped out of the Bentley.
Slade followed them, trudging towards the production office trailer. Helen greeted them politely.
“I’ve got constables patrolling the perimeter fences, and more guarding the entrance, just like yesterday,” he told her redundantly. She already had her production security personnel on the job liaising with the police force. She nodded. He couldn’t help noticing the top buttons on her blouse were undone and part of her cleavage was showing, as he continued. “As this trailer has the only outside line on the site I’ll need to stay on the spot, but DC Nandu will be glad to give you any advice or help you or your TV bods might need out on location.” Nandu smiled sympathetically at the 2nd AD.
“I’m sorry about the lack of a signal, Detective Inspector Slade,” Helen replied smoothly, ignoring the crawl of his eyes. “It doesn’t make any of our jobs easier. Though we do have HT, which serves most of our needs. But I’m sure you must have your own,” she added pointedly.
“Of course. But I need to be contactable from outside at all times.” He smiled broadly at her. “Ooh, and while you’re here…” he added, settling himself in Helen’s swivel chair, “Any chance of a coffee? White, one sugar?” She stared at him for several seconds without answering. Whitley rolled his eyes at Nandu.
Whitley sat at a smaller porta-desk against one wall of the trailer, poring over Helen’s laptop. The Handheld Transceiver next to his coffee cup burbled and crackled every now and then. Slade spent most of the next hour on the landline, checking on other productions in the area. There were a few: a supermarket sitcom in Bristol; a crime serial set in Clevedon; a children’s Sci Fi in Bridgend, South Wales,—out of Slade’s area strictly speaking, but as he’d told DI Hughes, he was now in charge of the whole case wherever it took him; a period drama in Wells dealing with witch burnings; a sword and sandals prime time show for Saturday nights, and the continued antics of Hospital in Cardiff (Professor What was still on hold). Slade was particularly interested in the Wells drama (burnings) and was in half a mind to visit, but the combined presence of Hamm and Wallace on this particular set compelled him to stay for the time being. He would make regular telephone checks on his officers looking after the period drama though. Finger on the pulse, or fucking what!
If Slade had had his way, every production in the South West and Wales region would be on hold. He had assumed his Super would share his opinion, but what Slade obviously failed to perceive (as his Super pointed out to him condescendingly) was that there was more at stake here than simply solving a crime. Politics was rearing its big ugly head too, and the British TV and Film Industry still had a lot of clout, especially when it came to MPs. So there it was: productions so far unaffected by recent occurrences would continue to film despite the murders, and Slade would just have to spread his force thinly to cover them all. So Slade continued his calls, concentrating first on those productions which Whitley had highlighted might lure the killer, swivelling in his chair to watch evening fall outside the trailer window as he did so.
He returned his attention to the Wells period piece which might link to three films on the infamous list: Blood Rites, The Burning and Don’t Go in the House. He cross-checked the latter two first because of the fire motif. Whitley had scribbled in biro next to these titles: “the first has a nutter with a face like a Southern Fried Chicken chopping peeps with a HUGE pair of shears, and DGITH has a sick fuck torturing babes with a blowjob.” Slade was pretty sure his DS was confusing his terms here, but really didn’t want to guess what had prompted the lexical mash up. Blood Rites was a period Slasher, (“supposed to be a bit shit,” was Whitley’s considered lit crit). Slade sighed, and moved on to the Clevedon crime drama purely because of its theme of murder, (Whitley’s comment: “Might tie in with Terror Eyes because of bumbling cops and decapitated heads in fish tanks”), although there was nothing overtly violent about this rather cosy sleuther by the look of it. He would need to check with the production to see if they had any fish tanks in the script, or indeed, decapitated heads. Next up was Hospital which linked with two films: Dead and Buried (“nurse whacks needle in eye of patient”) and Visiting Hours (“looney on loose in emergency ward—this one’s got Captain Kirk in it”). Slade was of the opinion that they could probably discount the A&E soap, though. His hunch told him the killer wouldn’t strike at the same studio twice.
But sitting in a warm office drinking coffee could get dull even for a man with Slade’s leisurely proclivities, so when the call came through from his department he was on the whole quite glad of the distraction. He’d been on the point of delegating the production checks to Whitley, who had just finished working through the list of extras present at the previous crime scenes that were also booked for future TV jobs. Again, Hamm and Wallace were the only common factors, the DS reported. This confirmed Slade’s opinion that he’d parked his ass on the right production. Standing up to stretch and pondering whether he should go and check on Rona Capley, the telephone pulled him out of his pleasant reverie. He snatched up the receiver on its second ring.
He listened as DC Pete Brack relayed what had just come through to the station and his lazy mood abruptly vanished. “Fuck’s sake!” He slammed the phone down, looking distracted.
“What’s up, guv?”
“Get your fat ass of that chair, Whitley. We’re out of here.” He grabbed the HT off the desk and contacted DC Nandu.
“There’s been another one. Myself and DS Whitley are going straight to the SOC just outside Bristol. You’re in charge here. Position a uniform in this office to man the landline. Anything fucking unusual happens, I want to hear about it straightaway. But I want you out on location where all the action is. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” The walkie talkie crackled and Nandu’s voice was serious and to the point: “Copy that, guv.”
He was down the steps of the trailer and hurrying towards the Bentley with Whitley trying to keep up within seconds of speaking to Nandu.
“We got the wrong production?” Whitley asked as they climbed in.
Slade started the engine. He killed the music as it blared out in response. He wasn’t in the mood for punk. “No. This is another old one. Just been found. An anonymous caller tipped off the local Bristol bobbies. They contacted the department. Fuck it all: I was looking forward to a quiet night.”
“Could be worse, guv. Could have happened here.”
Slade swung the Bentley in a bumpy curve and headed down the track to the B road, nodding at the two constables at the entrance. He wound down the window. “Keep an eye out, boys. DC Nandu’s holding the fort for the next hour or two. Spot anything odd, get on to her.” They stood back and the Bentley bounced off the track onto the road to Malmesbury.
The room stank of human rot.
“Another old one” couldn’t possibly have prepared Whitley for the scene that awaited them. Even Slade, who had taken the info first hand, lost his jaded composure.
The two detectives stood in the bedroom with its peeling paint and cobwebs and looked at the girl on the bed.
She had been in her early twenties. They even had a name. Jim Tavell provided that as soon as they arrived. “Vicky Hebworth. Model. Does occasional extra work on films and TV. Reported missing six weeks ago by her boyfriend and parents.”
Slade nodded grimly. “Check the boyfriend out,” he said to Whitley who was scribbling in his notebook. He sucked in some air, then immediately regretted it.
She had been pretty, maybe beautiful, once upon a time. Slade ignored the wound in the forehead and what was embedded in it for the moment, taken in by the cobalt blue eyes, now glazed by a film of death, the taut cheekbones marbled by putrescence. Rigor mortis had propped open her once sexy mouth. Maggots had taken away her bottom lip and played on the tongue, which was now more green than pink. She was naked. Her nipples were beginning to sink in, the aureoles dark. There was a sheen of rot replacing the tan that once bronzed her sleek legs.
“Take the bra off, Vicky.”
She looked off camera, towards the man who had spoken. He nodded once.
She did as she was told. The pink shiny bra dropped to the bed.
“Now stand up and drop the knickers too.”
She hesitated a bit longer this time, but eventually pulled them down her thighs. They pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of them and stood shyly, sexily, nervous, yet proud. She had a great body.
“Hammer blow to the left clavicle,” Jim Tavell said. He held up the evidence bag with the tool inside. “Claw hammer. Only one blow from this by the looks of it. Certainly not the cause of death.”
“No, that would be the fucking great nail sticking in her brain,” Slade snapped. Tavell glanced at him.
“Sorry, Jim.” Slade rubbed his forehead. “Just tired, that’s all.”
“Tired of this sick bastard, like all of us,” Tavell answered.
Slade nodded slowly. He felt a deep, uncontrollable fury rising. He took in the other wounds peppering the naked body. More nails. Jim Tavell’s pretty female assistant was holding a bag containing the nail gun that had fired them.
“Kind of the fucker to leave us with the murder weapon.” His fists were clenched. Always worse when the victims were female. Always.
The light went out. Vicky hadn’t been expecting that. The bedroom was so quiet she could hear her own breathing (faster now) and a rustle as the camera moved. Were they filming in infra red? She heard a clink of metal. Boot steps across the bare floorboards. Then dreadful, sickening pain as something hard and metal smashed into her shoulder blade, just above her naked left breast.
Vicky screamed.
“Any videos this time?”
Tavell nodded. He gestured at one of the other SOCOs, who brought forward two separately bagged items.
“Two? He’s fucking loving this.” Slade scrutinised the boxes through the plastic of the bags. “Couple more for your list, Trev. Or maybe this means two you can cross off.” He read out the titles. Whitley scribbled them down. Toolbox Murders, Snuff. There were no comical annotations this time.
She fell back on the bed, sobbing, screaming. But nobody would come, would they? She knew that. The house was empty. It stood on its own miles from anywhere. She had walked right into this, like a sheep into the slaughterhouse. Baaing all the way. Her vanity had led her down this path. But what was wrong with that? What was so wrong with being beautiful and wanting to make a living off her beauty? She cried without sound as she thought of her mother, waiting for her at home, and Dan, her new boyfriend whose texts would never be answered. She rolled off the bed. “Don’t, please! What are you doing?”
She heard a clink-kerchunk of some metallic item being loaded. Then a hollow percussion sound. She felt the agony seconds later.
“Present occupier?” Slade turned to a uniform who was standing respectfully back, trying not to gape at the beautiful corpse. The beautiful, hideous corpse.
“Uh, yes sir. Jezac Pincker. Romanian national. Emigrated here six months ago. Construction worker. Been renting this cottage for five months. Present whereabouts unknown, sir.”
“A construction worker who can afford a place in the country like this. Something doesn’t add up, does it, son?”
The constable nodded, then shook his head. “Er, no, sir.”
“The tip off…” Slade continued. “Details?”
“Anonymous caller, sir. No details. But er…”
“Yes?” Slade’s voice was steely.
“Male with Eastern European accent, sir.”
Slade dismissed him with a curt nod. He turned to Whitley. “I want to know everything about this Pincker bastard. Every building site he’s worked on both here and in Romania. Get onto Interpol. I want his background. I want to know who he interacted with here and over there. I want to know what his parents do, whether he’s been married, whether he’s gay. I want to know who delivered the fucking milk here. I want to hear from the postie. I want…” He paused, gathering his breath. “I don’t just want this fucker’s history, Trev; I want to know what hair gel he uses, what kind of burgers he likes, how big his fucking cock is!”
He turned away. He needed air again. But he knew stepping outside this quiet lonely house of death secreted in the woods five miles from Bristol would not take away the sight of those staring bluebell eyes, the once pink gloss of the lipstick, now moist with decay. He doubted he would ever be able to look at a pair of naked breasts again without seeing the dreadful subsidence of those aureoles—as if some sadistic child had pressed in the plastic tits on a doll—and the nipples themselves with their new shade of putrescent blue.
Through the pain, a memory. Of happier times. Cold, so cold, but what excitement! A movie set—her first! Goodwood Racetrack. The glam costumes, the vintage cars, the good looking extras, the men, always the men…mum… Mum!
Cold… So…cold…
“Let’s go, Whitley,” said Slade, turning his back on the room, on the dead girl staring after him with those blue, blue eyes.