Alma Connors’ house smelt faintly of cats. As the sweet old lady guided Wendy and Culverhouse into her living room, Wendy noted that her son must be in his forties by now. Either that, or Alma Connors was a very late starter.
The house was a small red-brick mid-terrace house on Elizabeth Street, not far from the town centre, in the Royals part of town, built in the early 1900s.
‘Can I get either of you a cup of tea?’ she said as she ushered Wendy and Culverhouse into her living room.
Culverhouse quickly surveyed the scene, noting the cat smell and the bird droppings on the mantelpiece before curtly answering for both himself and Wendy.
‘No thank you, Mrs Connors. That's very kind of you.’
‘Well, I suppose I should get straight to the point, then.’
Culverhouse wished very much that she would. He wasn’t particularly good with smells.
‘As I mentioned to DS Knight on the telephone, I believe my son may be the man you are looking for in connection with the recent killings.’
‘Right. And what makes you think that, Mrs Connors?’
‘Call it a mother's intuition, if you will.’
At this, Wendy cast her eyes towards Culverhouse, knowing exactly the look she would find upon his face.
‘Mrs Connors. As much as it pains me to say it, intuition does not go down very well as admissible evidence in court. Now, if your “intuition” is the only reason for calling me and DS Knight away from a very important investigation, I would like to warn you that it could very well be considered as wasting police time.”
‘Oh no, Inspector. There's plenty of evidence, believe you me.’
Culverhouse had a feeling that Alma Connors’s definition of “evidence” may differ slightly from his.
‘You see — my son, Thomas, or Tom, as he likes to be called, was dating a young lady up until recently. Quite a nice, young lady. Very polite. However, it was quite clear, to me at least, that she wasn't your usual run-of-the-mill girlfriend.’
Culverhouse's patience was running thin. ‘Go on, Mrs Connors.’
‘Well, she was… You know… A lady of the night.’
‘You mean she was a prostitute?’ Wendy said.
‘Yes, if you like. Now Thomas has never had many girlfriends, so I think it was all rather convenient for him. He suffers from some social difficulties, you see. Asperger's Syndrome. I'm quite sure the relationship never became sexual. Not under my roof, anyway. He used to buy her all sorts of nice gifts with the money he had saved and I think he just quite liked having a young lady friend to feel proud of.’
‘And how does this tie in with our investigation, Mrs Connors?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Well, if I remember correctly, he stopped bringing this girl home a couple of weeks ago now. I asked him what had happened and why she didn't come over any more and he acted very evasively. He wouldn't even mention her name any more, Inspector. To go from borderline infatuation to complete ignorance in an instant struck me as rather queer.’
‘Rather queer indeed. But I must ask you again, Mrs Connors; how does this tie in with our investigation?’
‘Well, I was watching the news reports on the killings and they showed a picture of each of the young girls. I'm almost certain that the second one was Thomas's young girlfriend. Maria Preston. I think that was her name.’
‘You think it was her name?’ Culverhouse said.
‘Well, yes. That's not what Thomas told me she was called. He said her name was Lauren, but I suppose these ladies of the night must operate under all sorts of false names and secret identities.’ Alma Connors seemed nervous and uneasy at the situation which had presented itself to her, yet strangely keen to tell all.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I really didn't want to have to do this, Inspector. It's a terrible thing to have to report your own son to the police, but after seeing what happened to those young girls, well, I had no other choice.’
‘And you're quite sure it's Maria Preston that Tom was seeing?’
‘Quite sure, Inspector, yes.’
Culverhouse had already opened his mouth to ask Alma Connors another question when the living-room door opened. A man in his late thirties entered the room gingerly and rather nervously. Wendy supposed the man would not look out of place at a comic book convention.
Alma Connors looked rather shocked at the man's sudden entrance.
‘Inspector Culverhouse, this is Thomas, my son. Sit down, Thomas.’
‘Inspector?” Tom Connors asked nervously.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, actually. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight. Pleased to meet you, Tom.’
‘What's this all about?’
‘We'd like to ask you a few questions about a girl you might know. Known to you as Lauren, I believe.’
Tom Connors looked visibly distressed. ‘What about her?’
Culverhouse, not wanting to alarm Tom Connors, chose his words very carefully.
‘We believe she may have been involved in an accident.’
‘I don't have anything to say about her.’
‘It's not quite as simple as that, Tom. This is a criminal investigation and if we believe you may have some information which could help us, then we do need to talk to you.’
‘I told you. I don't have anything to say about her.’
‘Tom, if it turns out that you did know this woman then you don't have much choice. We'd like you to accompany us to the police station so we can have a little chat.’
‘Oh, will that be necessary?’ Mrs Connors said. ‘Only it’s best that Thomas can stick to a routine, and to places he knows.’
‘Mrs Connors,’ Culverhouse said, as calmly as he could manage, ‘if what we’ve been speaking about turns out to be of some significance, we need to do this properly.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Wendy added, hoping to placate her. ‘We’ll make sure he’s comfortable with everything.’
As they left Alma Connors' house, Wendy gasped at the fresh, cat-free air that flowed outside. She couldn't have been more pleased that Culverhouse had decided to conduct the questioning at the station. Tom, clearly uneasy and well out of his comfort zone, put up quite a resistance to Culverhouse's insistence that the conversation be continued elsewhere. A quick, sharp jab to the ribs (thankfully unnoticed by Wendy or Alma Connors) soon sorted that out.
As the unmarked Vauxhall pulled away from the house, Wendy's mobile phone rang. The conversation was brief, and she had soon put the phone back in her jacket pocket.
‘That was Mildenheath Hospital,’ she said numbly. ‘Drop me back at the station and I'll drive over there. My brother's been taken ill.’
‘Ill?’
‘Drugs overdose, they reckon. They've asked me to come in right away.’