Tom Connors sat in silence as Culverhouse began to conduct the interview, having waited for Wendy to get back from the hospital before they continued.
‘Tom, I'll cut straight to the chase. We'd like to speak with you about a young lady called Ella Barrington. We think you might have known her. I am showing the suspect a photo of Ella Barrington,’ Culverhouse said as he placed a photograph in front of Tom Connors.
‘Suspect? You didn't say nothing about me being no suspect!’ Tom said, panicked.
Wendy interjected. ‘It's just police terminology, Tom. Just a thing we have to do, you know, or our bosses tell us off. Don't worry, you're not under arrest.’
Culverhouse shot a thankful smile at Wendy. ‘Terminology, exactly. Tom, do you recognise this woman?’
Tom shuffled uncomfortably.
‘No, I've never seen her before.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I've never seen her before.’
Culverhouse sat in silence for a moment, wistfully planning his next move.
‘Tom, do you recognise this woman? For the benefit of the tape, I am now showing the sus—Mr Connors a photograph of Maria Preston.’
He handed the photograph to Tom Connors. It looked as though it had been taken at a recent party. Fellow drunken revellers partied on behind her whilst she posed daintily for the camera, a single lock of blonde hair draped across her forehead, a symbol of the care-free attitude she must have had that night. It had been one of her last.
‘No. I don't recognise her either.’
Culverhouse let out a slight involuntary grunt and glanced almost apologetically at Wendy. ‘Tom, we've got two independent witnesses who've seen you with this woman on a number of occasions.’
Wendy was furious at Culverhouse’s bending of the truth, but managed to remain calm. ‘Guv… I don't think that’s—’
‘They're lying! You're lying! I've never seen her in my life! I swear!’
Culverhouse leaned over. ‘Listen to me, Connors. I've got a routine for dealing with shits like you. I ask three polite questions and then it gets nasty. You've had two. What do you know about Ella Barrington and Maria Preston?’
Tom paused for a moment.
‘They were prostitutes, weren't they? I mean, I saw it on the news. Look, I'd been seeing a girl for a little while. Her name was Gabriella Poulson. She was… one of them.’
‘A prostitute?’ Wendy asked.
Tom Connors looked uneasy at the mention of the word, but eventually nodded.
‘Yeah. One of them. I went to her a few months back and started to get involved. Far too involved.’
‘You mean you fell in love with her?’
‘Sort of. I guess. I couldn't see enough of her. I started to see her every night and I'd buy her presents, jewellery and stuff.’
‘Did that not get a bit expensive? I was under the impression you worked in a video rental shop,’ Culverhouse asked.
‘I do. I had some money saved up and I worked extra hours. It's strange, the things you do for… y'know…’
Wendy nodded sympathetically. From what she knew of Asperger’s, she wondered what Tom Connors’s interpretation of love would be, and almost felt added sympathy because of it.
‘I understand.’
‘Look, I wanna get something off my chest,’ Tom continued. ‘When I started to fall for Gabriella it began to dawn on me just what she was.’
‘What do you mean, Tom?’
‘The fact that she was… one of them. It seemed to matter more and more all the time. One night she came over to mine. She had clearly been to another bloke's house just before. Her lipstick was smudged and her underwear was skew-whiff. It felt like she had no respect for me and I just lost it.’
‘You hit her?’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said after a few moments of silence. ‘I hit her.’
Culverhouse leaned forward onto the interview desk, poised like an eagle stalking his prey.
‘And what happened?’
‘Well I didn't kill her if that's what you mean. She didn't say a word. Just packed up and left. It didn't strike me as being the first time it'd happened to her, if you get where I'm coming from. But listen, I've never seen any of those other two women before in my life. I swear.’
‘OK Tom. We're going to need to check a few things with this Gabriella Poulson. Do you have any contact details for her?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not on me. She lives in digs on the Marshwood estate. Opposite the petrol station. Number 4a.’
‘Right. I think we'd better go and corroborate your story. We'll keep you in a cell until we've backed the story up,’ Culverhouse said.
‘No! You can't keep me in here! Anyway, how can she back my story up if she's dead? What happens then?’
‘Then you've got some explaining to do, Mr Connors.’
The Marshwood estate was notorious in Mildenheath. Gang culture had gripped the estate and cab drivers would no longer enter the estate for fear of being attacked by feral youths. The estate used to be served by two bus routes, the 34 and 62, but the local bus company had amended the routes to circumvent the estate entirely. To most, it seemed as though the Marshwood estate was cut off from the rest of Mildenheath entirely, like a cancerous growth just waiting to be lanced.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Wendy and Culverhouse pulled into the estate in their unmarked car. Entering the estate in a marked vehicle was completely out of the question. Two back-up officers sat on the edge of the estate in another unmarked car.
‘A date?’ Culverhouse said as they pulled up at the petrol station. It was the safest place to leave the car, Culverhouse had declared. At least the petrol station would have CCTV.
‘Yeah, with a guy I bumped into in the pub the other night. He's an accountant.’
‘An accountant? Right.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no problem. Just make sure you keep your attention focused solely on the case, Knight. I don't want any lovey-dovey bullshit out of you until we've found our man. There's only one person I want getting nailed at the moment, and it ain't you.’
They made their way towards the block of flats opposite the petrol station. It was fortunate that Tom Connors had referred to it in this way as the building lacked any other sort of identification. No name plaque, no road signs, nothing. Just another grey, soulless building opposite a petrol station. Stepping over discarded chip paper and lager cans, Wendy and Culverhouse entered the building.
The entrance hall was cold and dark, a staircase scaling the right-hand wall before turning to climb the wall opposite the door. A teenage couple, no older than fourteen, sat on the concrete apex with faces interlocked and their hands where God only knew.
Hidden behind the staircase, with the concrete apex and canoodling couple only inches above them, was number 4a. Wendy inadvertently scanned the door for the most germ-free spot before knocking firmly.
The door was eventually answered by a woman with a drawn complexion, her drug-abused skin hanging desperately from her bony cheeks.
‘Gabriella Poulson?’
‘Who's asking?’
‘DCI Culverhouse and DS Wendy Knight, Mildenheath Police.’
Gabriella moved to slam the door but Culverhouse's size eleven boots were already firmly placed against the doorframe.
‘We're not here to arrest you, love. You know what you are and I know what you are, but we need you to help us with our investigation.’
‘Why the hell should I help you lot?’
‘Because two prostitutes have been murdered in Mildenheath and we reckon he's about to do a third. If you don't want to end up being the next, you'd better start talking to us.’
Gabriella paused before opening the door and motioning for Wendy and Culverhouse to enter the flat before anyone spotted them.
The line between the flat and the street was non-existent. Lager cans and food packets were strewn across the flat along with a selection of used syringes and condoms.
‘Christ, you running an AIDS factory in here or something?’ Culverhouse said.
They walked over to the lounge corner and Culverhouse daintily scoured the rotting sofa for somewhere safe to sit. Once he had done so, he dusted his knees and looked up to see Wendy quite content with standing.
‘Gabriella, we need you to tell us if you know a gentleman by the name of Tom Connors,’ Wendy said.
‘Tom?’ she said, thinking. ‘Yeah, he was a client of mine.’
‘Was?’
‘Yeah, was. Until it got too much for him and he decided to lump me one,’ she said, snorting through her nose.
‘Did you not go to the police about it?’ Wendy asked.
‘What's the point? They never do nothing. Not exactly sympathetic about people like us.’
‘Is it something you want us to follow up?’
‘I’m not pressing charges if that's what you mean,’ Gabriella said, folding her arms in a show of defiance.
‘Was Tom ever... more than a client to you, Gabriella?’ Wendy asked.
‘Nah. I was probably more than just another hooker to him, but it was purely business from my point of view.’
‘And do you know either of these girls?’ Culverhouse asked, handing Gabriella the photographs of Ella Barrington and Maria Preston.
‘Na. Never seen either of them before.’
‘Are you sure? It's very important,’ Wendy asked.
‘Are these them two girls what got killed?’
‘Yes,’ Culverhouse said.
‘Ah, I see. So because they was hookers too, you must’ve thought we all knew each other. Sorry, Inspector. Doesn’t quite work like that. A bloody shame, but I've never seen them. Honest.’
‘Right. Well thanks for your time.’
Culverhouse, clearly intent on not spending a second longer than he had to in Gabriella's flat, marched off towards the door. Wendy watched him leave before offering some words of advice to Gabriella.
‘Just… be careful, OK? He's out there and he's going to kill again. Please make sure you're not the next one.’
As she left the flat, Wendy found Culverhouse stood near the entrance to the building, motioning towards the concrete apex.
‘Disgusting, ain't it? Not even out of nappies and they're already fumbling around like a Jew in a Christmas shop.’
On leaving the building, Culverhouse checked the car still had four wheels and six windows before his phone rang.
‘Culverhouse,’ he barked, answering it.
‘Guv, it's Frank. We've got another body.’
‘Christ almighty. Does it match the MO?’
‘It seems to. Funny thing is the body's still warm. Early word is it’s happened in the last couple of hours. So it can't possibly have been Tom Connors.’
‘Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.’ Culverhouse snapped the phone shut and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
‘What's up?’
‘That was DS Vine. They've found another body. It wasn't Connors. It's still warm.’
‘Shit. There goes another evening to myself,’ Wendy said, thinking of what she’d say to Robert.
‘Nonsense,’ Culverhouse said, taking her by the arm. ‘You've been working flat out since yesterday morning. You need a break. Go on your date.’
Wendy smiled.